


The Other Law

by Thispe



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BAMF!Bilbo, Divorce, Dwarf Culture, F/M, Female Bilbo, Genderbending, Hobbit Culture, Humor, Infertility, M/M, POV Female Character, Romance, Sexism, Shunning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-19
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-05 20:48:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 38,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/727764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thispe/pseuds/Thispe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo looked down at the piece of paper the Magistrate had pressed into her hand. '<i>Certificate of divorce due to permanent barrenness of the womb</i>' it read in elaborate and rather pretentious calligraphy. It might as well have read '<i>Certificate of Disgrace</i>' for all that it meant the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Response to the following hobbit kink-meme prompt.  
> (abridged) fem!Bilbo was once married. Children are very important in hobbit society and her husband divorced her after she didn't fall pregnant. She is now shunned for being barren and lives at Bag End a disgraced woman, until Gandalf appears in search of an adventurer. Dwarves only know divorce from Men and they find the practice abhorrent. This is an added difficulty in the budding relationship between Bilbo and Thorin.
> 
> Many thanks to my beta reader stickdonkey!

The Magistrate cursed as he spilled half of the blotting sand not on Emmerich's bold signature on the parchment, but rather into his second breakfast tea. It was not the kind of language one used in front of a hobbit lady. Any other day Bilbo would have glared disapprovingly, but today she barely heard him over the sound of the blood rushing in her ears. Numbly she stared at her hands neatly folded in her lap, as if she was merely waiting for Emmerich to finish his pipe instead of watching helplessly as her comfortable and respectable life crumble around her.

Technically the Magistrates' office didn't open for public business until after elevensies, but once Emmerich made up his mind he never let anything as pedestrian as opening hours stand in his way.

Like every morning he had woken up today at exactly 7:35 and after washing up and dressing, had eaten breakfast for exactly twenty-five minutes (two eggs – boiled six minutes, eight rashers of bacon – extra crisp, two slices of white bread – buttered on both sides, fried mushrooms – honey glazed and one cup of tea – sweet and milky) while perusing the newspaper and the morning post. Then, _unlike_ every morning, he had failed to give her a peck on both cheeks and leave for his morning pipe and gossip with the neighbours. Instead he had waved her out the door, locked it behind them and taken her for a walk into the village.

Bilbo had been too baffled by this unexpected turn of event to give much thought to what was going on and Emmerich's stony face hadn't invited questions. It was a pleasant day nevertheless and some part of her actually enjoyed the unexpected change of routine. She made up a nice list what to buy at market and thought of a quaint little rhyme about daffodils and babbling brooks while they walked. She rather thought it would be nice to set it to song later. 

The stop at the magistrate office was unexpected, as was Emmerich's insistence that they be admitted right before second breakfast. Bilbo cursed herself a fool ten times over that she didn't suspect anything until the Magistrate began to draw up the necessary documents. Only then had ice-cold realization rushed through her like a river after the spring melt. 

The Magistrate asked her questions to fill in the blanks in his document and she answered them numbly. Full name? – Bilberry Boffin formerly Baggins; Married how long? - Three years just two days past; Children? No, of course not, else they wouldn't be here.

If she had refused to answer, Emmerich would have been forced to call in three reliable witnesses of good standing to confirm his claims. The unnecessary fuss would have displeased him fiercely and Bilbo was angry and spiteful enough to actually do it. But oh, the humiliation! The gossip would be bad enough without adding fuel to the fire. She would never be able to show her face again without setting the tongues wagging as it was.

Her presence was necessary for the proceedings but under these special circumstances her consent was not. Therefore Emmerich's signature and the Magistrate's seal settled the matter once and for all. The Magistrate handed her a piece of paper and she took it automatically. 

“Well...” he said and cleared his throat.

Bilbo didn't move. Finally his wife took her arm and kindly but firmly escorted her out the door with a pitying look on her face. Outside Emmerich shook her hand, wished her a good morning and left. The nerve of him. To think that she should have lived to be good-morninged by her own husband as if she were selling buttons at the door. She clenched her fist. But then, he wasn't strictly her husband any more, was he?

Finally she looked down at the piece of paper the Magistrate had pressed into her hand. ' _Certificate of divorce due to permanent barrenness of the womb_ ' it read in elaborate and rather pretentious calligraphy. It might as well have read ' _Certificate of Disgrace_ ' for all that it meant the same. She looked around, half expecting the day to be as bleak as she felt. But no, the sun was still shining, the daffodils still in bloom, the day still proceeding normally for all Hobbits around. The main square was deserted as second breakfast was still commencing. She half suspected that Emmerich had planned it this way to keep any emotional outburst of hers private. He always hated it so when she got emotional. She crumbled the certificate up and stuffed it into her pocket. There was nothing else in there save her handkerchief and a single copper coin and she realized that this was the entirety of her possessions right now. By law the dowry she had brought into the marriage now belonged to Emmerich as compensation for the lost years he could have spent with a fertile wife. Truly, there was only one thing a women in her situation was expected to do and she had no choice but to do just that. 

Bilbo turned around and went east, down the road, along the river and up the hill. She didn't stop until she reached Bag End and she didn't cry until she was tightly ensconced in her mother's embrace.


	2. Chapter 1

Mother would have been scandalized to see her smoking, Bilbo knows that. But not even the memory of Belladonna's disapproving face can quash the enjoyment brought by a bowl full of Old Toby. It reminds her of her father too. Bungo always smelled of pipe weed for as long as she can remember. Sometimes, when she closes her eyes and breaths in deeply while she smokes, she can almost imagine that he is still alive and sitting on the bench beside her, overseeing his fruitful garden and lording over his small dominion with the satisfaction due a Hobbit of his age and respectability. But no, many years had come and gone since he had last done so. In a way she is almost glad that he died before her disgrace. Mother hadn't cared. She was a Took and Tooks bore their disreputability proudly. Not even Azalea Bracegirdle spreading rather vicious rumours ' _Belladonna did far too many adventurous things in her youth. Something must have caused her own bad womb. Only one child and not even a son at that, can you imagine? Of course she passed it on. Bad seeds spread. Not even good Baggins stock can fight against such odds, I'm certain of it!_ ' had fazed Belladonna at all. She had held her head high and told Bilbo to do the same. But Bungo had been a Baggins through and through. It would have hurt him so to see his only child mocked by all and sundry.   
  
In his youth Bungo Baggins had been a very good catch. Rich and respectable, always dressed in the latest fashion, his belly and cheeks round and his hair properly combed. He had struck quite the handsome figure. Daughters of all families, from Ackers to Whitfoot, had batted their eyelashes at him and dropped their handkerchiefs for him to pick up. There had been a lot of bad blood when, amongst all the respectable girls, Bungo had proposed to Gerontius Took's eldest daughter. Not that there was something inherently bad with that, the old Took was Thain after all and a respectable man. But it is well-known that his ninth child was half mad with adventurous fantasies and had more Tookishness in her than the rest of the family combined. How a Baggins could choose that instead of good Hobbit stock was everybody's guess. Hobbits have a long memory and many of the old naysayers now felt vindicated that their predictions of bad blood had come true.   
  
Not that life was all bad. Merely different from the gaggle of children and the warm family home of her own Bilbo had imagined as a young woman. There was a certain freedom to be seen as improper no matter what she did. As a child she too had been rather Tookish in her behaviour. Always wild and always the first to climb a tree or swim in the river. Maturity and respect towards her father had taken care of that by the time she had hit her tweens. But what was the use in restraining oneself when ones reputation was shattered beyond repair anyway? These days she did what she wanted. She smoked the pipe, foraged for mushrooms in the forest and even visited Bree on occasion to drink beer by the pint (imagine that, pints!) and hear stories of far away places from the Rangers that often pass through on their way north. Hers is a comfortable life now, albeit a somewhat lonely one. An if sometimes she wrote down fantastic stories and imagined what it would be like to tell them to her own chattering little one instead of the silent pages of a book, or if she turned her head the other way when Emmerich, Dahlia and their brood of six walked by her in town, then that was no ones business but her own.  
  
She closed her eyes against the sun and puffed a smoke ring into the sky only to get a snoot full of smoke for her troubles as the wind changed abruptly and blew it back into her face. She coughed and opened her eyes.

 

There was a man standing at her garden gate. She blinked. He looked peculiar even for one of the race of men. He was tall, as men usually were, but made taller by the grey, pointy hat sitting on top of his head. He had a long, grey beard and also a grey robe to match. He seemed rather overly grey to her, now that she thought about it. Not all folks liked bright colours as much as the hobbits did, but surely one could overdo it when avoiding colours? He was also directly (and rather rudely) staring at her.  
  
“Good morning.“ She finally offered, rather hoping that nothing more would be required of her.  
  
The stranger lifted two bushy eyebrows (also grey) and Bilbo felt like he was somehow displeased with her.   
  
“What do you mean?“ he finally said. “Do you wish me a good morning, or mean that it is a good morning whether I want it or not; or that you feel good this morning; or that it is a morning to be good on?“  
  
Bilbo almost sighed. Not just an old man then but an old man trying to be clever. “I mean,“ she said crossly, “Good morning, is there a reason you are standing there, trampling my tulips?“ Bungo would have cuffed her ears at her atrocious manners, but she had lost the patience with uninvited visitors years ago. Too many unflattering names had been left smeared on her door in red paint for her to truly appreciate them.  
  
“Hmm,“ the man hummed and completely ignored her outburst as well as her question. He also didn't step off the tulips. “To think that any friend of Belladonna Took's should be treated this way, at her very own door and by her very own daughter no less.“  
  
“One would think that any friend of Belladonna Baggins would have come to her funeral“ Bilbo quickly replied, still miffed at the man's uncouth behaviour. She regretted her words almost as soon as she said them for the man suddenly looked very old and very sad.  
  
“The years pass so quickly and hobbits have so few of them,“ he said so quietly that she thought the words were more meant for himself than for her. “Indeed I did not know that Belladonna had died until a very short time ago and it still seems far too soon to me.“  
  
Bilbo cleared her throat and blinked away sudden tears. “She did die quite young. Her and father both,“ she offered. “I apologize for my manners. If you are truly a friend of my mother's then please sit down, have some tea and a pipe and we will talk.“  
  
The old man shook his head. “I don't have time for sitting down yet. You probably remember my name, though you don't seem to remember that I belong to it. I am Gandalf.“  
  
Bilbo did indeed remember the name. “Gandalf?“ she said. “Gandalf the wizard? You used to make fireworks and tell wonderful tales about dragons and princesses and kings!“  
  
The wizard smiled. The crinkles in the corner of his eyes deepened and made him look much kinder than before. “So you do remember me Bilberry Baggins. That is good, that is very good. Actually, it is a story very similar to those tales I used to tell that has brought me here. You see, I am searching for someone to join in an adventure.“  
  
Bilbo shuddered at the sudden dark and foreboding quality in the wizard's voice. Journeying to Bree on her own for the first time had been an adventure. Fishing the Bolger boy out of the Bywater before he drowned had been an adventure. But somehow she had a feeling that this wasn't the sort of adventure Gandalf was talking about.  
  
'We have no use for adventures in these parts' was what she meant to say, but what she said instead was, “Is it a foolish adventure?“.  
  
The wizard nodded. “Very foolish indeed. Quite the fool's errant in its entirety. But also very, very important. More important even than it might look like from the onset.“  
  
Bilbo took a deep puff of her pipe to calm her nerves. “I would like to hear more about that,“ she finally said.  
  
“Splendid!“ Gandalf replied. “It is settled then. I and the other thirteen will come to dinner.“ He turned around and vanished down the hill before Bilbo could even close her mouth that had dropped open in bafflement.  
  
“Settled?“ she asked out loud. “Others? Dinner? Thirteen!“


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fourteen guests arrive, a larder is emptied, a tale is told and a decision is made.
> 
> The chapter is a merry mish-mash of the book, the movie and my own interpretation. I did take some quotes directly from the movie and the book.

Predictably, self doubts set in not soon after her outrage had settled. What had she been thinking? She wasn't even half the Took her mother had been, so why had she allowed Tookish recklessness to make the decisions? And where pray tell had her Baggins common sense gone at that pivotal moment when she could still have prevented everything? She had invited fourteen wizards to supper! Well, she had invited one in any case, the other thirteen had invited themselves. But still, they were coming on her say-so, when instead she should have gone inside, locked the door and ignored all meddling wizards until they found someone else to do adventures with. That would have been the sensible thing to do. It would have been the _hobbit_ thing to do!

The corner of her mouth turned down almost of their own accord and she frowned.

It suddenly occurred to her that it was also the _hobbit_ thing to do to shun and cast aside a woman for something she had no control over. To hiss and curse and gossip about her behind her back (or within her hearing even), and cruellest of all, to isolate her from her community during a time where surely she needed the support and sympathy of her friends the most.

Gandalf hadn't done any of these things. He hadn't judged her, despite the fact that he must know. He knew her name and he had recently heard of Belladonna's death. In Hobbiton and the surrounding neighbourhood he couldn't have found out, nor talked about it with anyone, without also hearing the gossip. Yet he had made no mention of it and clearly it hadn't kept him away either. It felt good to be treated normally. Good not to be judged on this one failure but rather on what she still had to offer.

She grinned at the realization. Then she laughed. The joy bubbled out of her like water from a spring. She laughed until she was lying on the floor, holding her aching belly, gasping and struggling for breath. She felt dizzy and light as air and simply _good_. For this feeling alone she would gladly have Gandalf and a hundred other wizards over for supper and listen to what they had to say. To freely be in company again, to talk and joke and laugh without the weight of judgement bearing down on her, that would be worth anything. Even dealing with big folk and adventures and wizards that behaved like asses.

\----------------

The first dwarf came as a surprise. He was a tall and intimidating fellow. Gruff, dangerous looking and disinclined to answer questions or hold a conversation with her, he wasn't the wizardly company she had been expecting.

“Dwalin, at yer service,” he said, and not much more.

The second dwarf, Balin, came as an irritation. He looked more kindly, with his shorter stature, grandfatherly face and friendly comments about the weather. But once inside he only had eyes for the first dwarf, who turned out to be his brother. Soon they had started a lively conversation about mines and gold and trouble with orcs, all things of which Bilberry knew nothing about. Despite her attempts to join the conversation she was soon sitting alone in a corner watching them eat and drink, worriedly nibbling at her bottom lip.

By the time the third and fourth Dwarf had invaded her home she had propped her front door open with a rock and pinned a note on it that read: _Food and company this way_ with an arrow pointing in the proper direction, and underneath she had added: _Take off cloaks and muddy boots_. The ' _muddy boots_ ' she had underlined twice because either Fíli or Kíli (she couldn't quite remember which dwarf was which) had tried cleaning his on her mother's glory-box. Truly, who had taught that boy his manners?

She had hung the sign because she couldn't open the door any longer every time the bell rang, as she was now very busy bringing out food and wine and beer and plates and cutlery and who knew what else in a desperate attempt to keep the dwarves and their greedy (as well as grubby) fingers out of her larders.

After Gandalf arrived with another throng of dwarves she well and truly lost control of the situation. The dwarves, while not exactly _big_ folk, were still all much taller than her. They were also broader, stronger and - without exception - very well armed. To say that she felt intimidated was putting it mildly. They also refused to listen to a single thing she said.

“Excuse me, would you just...,” Balin almost ran her over with an overly full serving tray. “I am sorry but those chairs are...,” Kíli brushed by her holding two chairs. Vindictively she decided _not_ to tell him that those chairs had been in the second store-room for repairs and likely wouldn't hold anybodies weight for long.

She had hoped Gandalf would bring some order to the chaos, but it turned out that was a futile hope. He seemed to rather enjoy her distress and was disinclined to rein the others in. She had expected guests for supper and was happy to share food and drink with them. She wasn't, however, happy about the way they simply helped themselves and how they treated her not as their host but rather akin to a servant at any old inn. Some called for ale, and some for porter, and one for coffee and all of them for cakes and they kept her quite busy. They were also as rowdy as in a pub, throwing food, walking on the table and slamming their glasses.

The only positive thing that could be said was that their table manners were quite good. They were careful to eat and drink neatly and tied cloths around their neck like it was proper. It was clear to her that the they took a lot of pride in their beards, elaborately braided and decorated as they were, and were disinclined to dirty them up.*

While many of her guests were rather intimidating to look at, a few of them seemed nice and approachable enough. Gathering her courage she stepped beside the most harmless looking of them all.

“Excuse me, Mister Ori,” she said and was relieved when he smiled at her.

“Mistress Baggins!” he replied. “A nice place you have here I got to say, very cozy. Thank you for having us.”

“Oh, you are welcome,” Bilbo replied, though she wasn't sure if that was the truth. “I was wondering, Mister Ori, Gandalf mentioned an adventure but he hasn't gotten around to telling me anything about it. I was hoping you could tell me some more?”

Ori cocked his head. “Well yes, I suppose so,” he said, though he sounded unsure. “It's quite the story. You see, it’s all about the signs that have appeared and about the former dwelling of our people in the Lonely...”

“Ori!” a voice interrupted him sharply. It was Dori, the eldest of Ori's brothers. He was scowling so fiercely at both of them that Bilbo almost flinched away from him. “Don't tell tales out of turn,” he admonished his brother. “You have been taught better.”

Ori blushed and smiled bashfully at her after Dori had turned away. He didn't appear to be cross with her, but she couldn't get another word out of him either and soon he scuttled away to join his brothers. After a few more futile attempts to start a conversation with any of the others, or even to find a place to sit at her own table, she finally retreated to a corner with a plate of bread and cheese and watched the goings-on from afar.

Being lonely by ones self was one thing, but being lonely in a crowd should be counted amongst the worst things that could happen to a person. Bilbo knew it well from market day and other gatherings in town, but to now feel it in her own home - which had been her protection against the world for such a long time - hit her hard and made her quite thoroughly miserable. All hope that she would feel better amongst non-Shire folk had vanished and made her almost wish she had never felt hopeful at all.

To make matters worse they later all had the gall to sing an awful song mocking her hospitality, which had been flawless all evening thank you very much, and threatening to do unspeakable things to her cutlery and dishes. Seeing her mother’s best china flying through the air almost drove her to tears. She was spared the indignity of having to yell and throw them all out on their ears by a heavy knock.

“He is here,” Gandalf said into the sudden silence. The rambunctious mood from moments before had vanished and the company now seemed strangely sombre. Curious at the change Bilbo followed Gandalf to the door just in time to see a very tall and imposing looking Dwarf enter the hall.

“Gandalf!” the Dwarf said. “I thought you said this place was easy to find? I got lost twice on the way and wouldn't have found it at all if it weren't for the music coming through the open door.”

“Goodness,” Bilbo muttered, “I completely forgot to close it after the last lot arrived.”

Gandalf smiled. “Bilberry Baggins,” he said and gestured at her, “may I introduce to you the leader of our company, Thorin Oakenshield.”

Up close Thorin Oakenshield looked almost as intimidating as Dwalin. He was however rather handsome for a dwarf. Much too tall of course and while he was amongst the least hairy dwarves he still had far too much of it for hobbit standards, but Bilbo rather thought that with his intense eyes and strong features he wouldn't be lacking dancing partners at the midsummer festival.

“So this is the Hobbit?” he asked. “Dwarven women wear men's clothing when they go travelling and are so fierce in battle as to be indistinguishable from menfolk. She however looks more like a grocer. Is this truly the Burglar you promised us, Gandalf?”

“Burglar?” Bilbo blurted out, but Thorin paid her no heed.

“What is your weapon of choice Mistress Baggins, axe or sword?” He paced around her, leaning in close and trying to intimidate her with his superior height and bulk.

“I play an excellent game of conkers if you must know, but I don't see how that matters here”, she quickly replied.

Thorin snorted. “Conkers,” he muttered in disgust and turned away, “that's what I thought”. Bilbo mused that obviously he had never been hit by a stone, thrown by a hand, belonging to a Hobbit that had spent countless childhood hours practising his or her aim by smashing conkers on strings against each other. She amended her first opinion of Thorin in that he would only have dancing partners if he kept his mouth well and truly shut.

 

Balin and Dori served Thorin a meal which was made up of many different odds and ends from Bilbo's larder as there wasn't much food left. But Thorin seemed content enough with the offerings and while he ate Gandalf pulled out a map and spread it out on the table. Bilbo curiously stepped closer. Of all mathoms she loved maps the most, indeed her study held an entire collection of them though she had only ever needed the one of Bree-land.

“The Lonely Mountain,” she read, more to herself than the others. “Indeed,” Gandalf said. “This map was given to me by your father, Thorin though at that time I knew not who he was. And now I give it to you to help you in your quest - together with this.” He held out a simply wrought key which could well have belonged to one of Bilbo's many chests or drawers. But Thorin took it with a reverence that made Bilbo think that there had to be more behind it.

“A key,” Thorin said. “Where there's a key, there must be a door.”

“A secret door to be precise,” Gandalf said, “straight into Erebor itself.” The company gasped in astonishment. Gandalf pointed to the map, “These runes speak of a hidden passage into the lower halls of the mountain”.

“I have never heard of such a thing,” Thorin growled.

“Which is why it is a _secret_ door, Thorin. And a well-kept secret too. Don't you remember, back when you escaped from Smaug and you thought your father and grandfather were lost inside?”

“I do,” Thorin replied thoughtfully. “I feared them both dead because no one could have escaped once Smaug was settled. But suddenly they came up from behind me, their faces grim and their beards singed, but alive and well. They must have used the secret passage to escape!”

“They did, and now you can use it to reclaim Erebor.”

“With the help of a burglar,” Thorin said.

“With the help of a burglar,” Gandalf confirmed.

And both their heavy gazes came to rest on her.

Bilbo squeaked and stepped backwards. “No, no, no, no, no,” she denied, “I am not a burglar, nor a thief. I have never stolen a single thing in my life. I am a Baggins of Bag End and we Bagginses aren't made for dangerous trickery like this!”

“I have to agree with Mistress Baggins,” Balin said. “She doesn't look like burglar material to me.”

“Aye,” Dwalin growled in agreement. “The wild is no place for folk who can neither fight nor fend for themselves. What if she's killed?”

“It does appear that she would hinder us more than be of use. We are better off by ourselves.” Thorin said, and his words sounded very final.

The shadows crept out of their corners of their own accord and the windows rattled ominously like a storm was brewing in the dining room. Gandalf suddenly appeared impossible large, far larger than should have possibly fit under her ceiling. For the first time since meeting him Bilberry understood why so many people were frightened of wizard folk.

“Enough! If I say Bilbery Baggins is a burglar, then a burglar she is,” he thundered, his voice echoing menacingly off the rafters. “You asked me to find the fourteenth member of this company, and I have chosen Mistress Baggins. There is a lot more to her than appearances suggest, and she has got a great deal more to offer than any of you know, including herself. You must trust me on this.”

Bilbo could only gape in astonishment. An unexpected warmth welled up in her heart. Gandalf had defended her. Against her will and against accusations that were perfectly correct, true. But he had taken on the bad opinion of thirteen dwarves and silenced them all. She couldn't remember the last time someone had acted this kindly to her. Foolish though it was, but it made her think much friendlier thoughts about this harebrained adventure of his than she would otherwise have.

“Very well then, if you insist, Gandalf,” Thorin mockingly bowed his head in Gandalf's direction. “then the Burglar shall give us some suggestions on what to do,”.

Bilbo was very flustered by now and barely understood half of what was going on. But she knew when she was being mocked and she knew that she didn't like it. “First I would like to hear more about the whole affair,” she said. She still wasn't sure what exactly this quest entailed, but she was very sure she didn't want to enter it blindly.

Thorin glared. “What is the matter with you, Hobbit? Didn't you see the map? Didn't you hear us talking about the quest? Balin tells me that my men have been gossiping like elves about nothing else all evening!”

“I heard you talking,” she snapped. “I heard you all talking amongst yourself and yourself alone but never once to me. If I am supposed to be part of this quest, and I haven't made up my mind about it yet at all, then I want it explained to _me_ directly and in plain words if you please.”

Strangely enough Thorin didn't get angry at her, instead a strange smile flitted across his face. “Very well Mistress Baggins, far be it from me to deny you the information you need to do your craft. First the contract though.”

On the other side of the table Balin jumped up from his chair and handed her a square piece of paper. Quickly she unfolded it and hurriedly read through the short list of terms.

“Payment on delivery,” she murmured. “one fourteenth of the total profits … fair enough … travel expenses guaranteed … funeral expenses defrayed amongst company… urn from non-precious metal in case of incineration …” Bilbo paused and let the words sink in for a moment. “Incineration?” she shrieked. “Are you telling me that incineration is a serious concern? Swords, orcs, diseases – yes, yes, yes, but fire?”

“That would be were the story of the Lonely Mountain comes in,” Thorin said, and after a thoughtful puff from his pipe he began his tale. “Many years ago my people lived in the city of Erebor inside the Lonely Mountain. We lived in riches, practising our craft so skilfully that from far and wide even kings and queens came to our doors to trade with us. Our prosperity however was also our downfall for it attracted a dragon, a terribly beast called Smaug. In one single day he seized Erebor, killed thousands of our people and forced the others into exile.”

“Smaug the Terrible - chiefest and greatest calamity of our age. Airborne fire-breather, teeth like razors, claws like meat hooks, imagine a furnace on wings,” Bofur piped in. His grin at her frightened gasp was all teeth.

Thorin accepted a glass of wine Dori handed him. “Óin has read the portents that have been foretold and we believe that now the time has come to take back what is rightfully ours. However, you can't defeat a dragon with brute force. Entire armies have failed in that task. Our entire kingdom failed in that task.”

“Also, we don't _have_ an entire army behind us. We number just thirteen, and not thirteen of the best, nor the brightest,” Balin injected sombrely.

Thorin silenced the shouts of protest with a glare. “One needs cleverness and stealth. Trickery! And that is where you come in Mistress Baggins, our burglar. You have heard Gandalf describe the side door?”

Bilbo nodded, “I can understand why Gandalf would think of a hobbit for the job. We hobbits are very light on our feet and excellent hiders. We are rarely noticed by anyone if we don't want to be.”

“And the dragon is well accustomed to dwarves, but he doesn't know the scent of hobbits. This gives us a distinct advantage,” Gandalf said.

“I am still not too keen on the incineration part though.” Bilbo frowned and thoughtfully tapped the contract against the table. “I will not decide tonight Master Thorin, but I promise to think deeply on the matter and give you my decision tomorrow.”

Thorin bowed his head. “Very well,” he said. “Don't think too long because we want an early start tomorrow. But for now let us forget the talk and have some music instead.”

To Bilbo's amazement the dwarves pulled out various instruments from their coat pockets, beards or shirt sleeves. Balin and Dwalin both had large horns with which they produced very deep notes that could be felt in the bones and teeth as much as heard with the ears. Bifur and Bofur both took out small stone flutes that looked like plain river stones with holes drilled into them, but which trilled merrily like song birds. Bombur on the other hand tied little domed metal disks to his fingers and was very skilled in clicking them together to provide ringing counterpoints to the melody.

Ori, Nori and Dori too all played joyful notes with flutes. The two younger brother's flutes were crafted from clay, but Dori's was made from a strange, white but yellowed material and polished to a shine. “Mûmakil tusk,” he explained with a toothy grin when he noticed Bilbo's curious look. Óin seemed content to just listen. His eyes were closed and he had a blissful look on his face as he held his hearing aid in the right direction. Glóin on the other hand, held a simple, fist-sized rock which appeared to be solid but had to be hollow for it rattled fiercely when he shook it. Depending on the movement and force of his hand he could make sounds as light as rain or as forceful as a marching army.

Lastly Fíli pulled a small lap harp from his bag and strummed it far more sweetly than one would ever expect of him. Kíli however took out no instrument. Instead he got his bow and arrows from where he had stowed them away in the hall. He put the string of the bow to his mouth and hit the string quickly and repeatedly with the arrow. It produced a peculiar vibrating twang and to Bilbo's amazement Kíli could cleverly manipulate it into forming entire melodies merely with the shape of his mouth.**

They shouldn't have sounded harmonious, but somehow the different instruments came together in a beautiful and haunting melody. Then Thorin began to sing and it stole her breath away.

As he sang Bilbo could feel the love of beautiful things made by hand, she could see the shimmer of the precious gold and jewels and understand why the dwarves desired it so. She could hear the bell-like rings of hammers that struck stone, a sound that resonates through enormous caverns and signals _home – home – home – home_ to all dwarves that hear it. Her Tookish side took notice and suddenly she too longed for those caverns. She wanted to see the great mountains shrouded in mist, she wanted to feel the spray of the waterfalls thundering down the mountainside and explore the caves therein while wearing a sword instead of a walking-stick. But then the song made her feel the heat of a well-fired forge which despite its strength, would never come close to the heat of dragon fire and she had to swallow hard against the sudden terror which was not entirely hers alone but instead shared by all of those in the room.

The spell was broken by a loud crack and a cry of surprise as the chair underneath Fíli's butt finally gave away and dumped the gobsmacked dwarf to the floor in a heap. His expression was so hilarious that the entire company, including Thorin burst into laughter. It lifted the heavy shroud of longing and misery and the decision to retire for the night was made light-hearted and cheerfully.

 

Outside in the hall Gandalf caught her sleeve and drew her aside. “Don't take their attitude too hard, Bilbo,” he said. “They are a secretive folk and don't trust strangers easily. It was hard for them to share this secret with you and they only did so out of necessity. It will take a while for them to truly trust you.”

She looked up at him and after a few moments finally nodded. “Very well,” she said. “I will try to be patient with them.” Before she could leave Gandalf tugged at her sleeve and pulled her closer. “A word of advice though, Mistress Baggins,” he whispered. “Dwarves don't have children easily and you mustn't fear the same judgement as you do from the hobbits. But in matters of the heart a dwarf loves but once in a lifetime, if he loves at all. He will not stray and he will not choose another, even if the love is not returned. As such they only know of the practice of divorce from Men and it is abhorrent to them. I fear if they were to know of your own situation they would treat you unkindly. It may be best if you kept some details of your life to yourself.”

Bilbo could only nod dumbly at the information. Apparently she couldn't be proper in any folk's regard. Her only comfort was that it likely wouldn't ever come up. If bachelorhood was common amongst dwarves then no one would think to question her own. Still, it would be yet another annoyance she had to deal with.

 

After pillows and blankets were distributed and the dwarves had settled down, Bilbo retired to her own room. She wasn't sure yet that she would truly dare joining them on their adventure, but it seemed more and more likely. The song of the misty mountains had touched something deep inside her and awakened a longing for a home she no longer possessed: a place where she was loved and accepted and belonged without question. She could empathize deeply with the dwarves' wish to regain what they had lost. It wasn't possible for her to get her own back, but maybe she could do her small part in helping them.

In any case, she had a feeling that Gandalf, especially, wouldn't allow her to stay in her cosy hobbit-hole. He was a wizard and wizards were used to get what they wanted. Likely he had decided the path for her to follow before he had even stopped by her house this morning. The best she could probably do was at least to leave well prepared for the journey.

She lit a candle and went all the way back to the farthest corner of her home. The third storage room was the smallest and used to store heirlooms that weren't mathoms. Things that were still useful merely not useful at this particular moment. Here she knew she could find what she needed.

Stored in a cedar chest were all her father's old clothes. She took out sturdy trousers and warm flannel shirts that would suit her well on the road. Her father had been taller and wider than her but two rows of tiny stitches on each trouser leg as well as a belt made them fit well enough, and the billowing cloth of the shirts would serve to disguise her bosom. After a moment's hesitation she also took her father’s large rain coat which was of very fine quality and treated with a special mixture of wax and oil to keep even heavy rain out. A crafty Hobbit from West Farthing had invented the technique many centuries ago - presumably because even then a hobbit's desire to harvest fresh vegetables and putter around in the garden every day no matter the weather was at odds with a hobbit's other desire to stay dry when it rained. She had her own coat of course, but her father's was large enough to keep her _and_ a pack of her belongings dry at the same time. Bungo wouldn't have approved of her using his things for adventures but, she reasoned, he would have approved of her getting wet and uncomfortable even less.

She tiptoed back to the front hall, mindful not to disturb the dwarves that slept all over the couches and armchairs in her study and sitting room. There she took her brown leather backpack from a hook and returned to her own room to pack a few more useful things. She trusted the dwarves to pack enough of the necessities like food and pots to cook it in, firestarters and bedrolls, waterskins, rope and other useful things. Likewise she trusted that they would not think to pack the little details that made life easier along the way. Therefore in her bag wandered, amongst other things, soap for washing oneself and a powder for washing ones clothes; a tiny sewing kit with needles and sharp scissors for loose buttons, ripped seams and in a pinch even open wounds; a small trowel and a set of garden shears. At the bottom she put a small bag of coins and on top a larger bag of fragrant pipe weed as well as her smallest and sturdiest pipe.

She eyed her sewing scissors for a moment and contemplated cutting her hair for ease of handling, but in the end she decided against it. Her hair was long and thick and curly with a nice reddish colour that reminded of chestnuts and stood out as not quite ordinary amongst the many lasses with plain brown or wheat-coloured hair. Bilbo had always secretly thought that with her rather plain face her hair was her best asset. Chopping it all off now surely would be a complete overreaction. She looked in the mirror above her dressing table and decisively flattened her curls as much as possible with a wet brush. Then she braided it into thick braids along the side of her head in a style similar to what she had seen on Fíli. It took her a few attempts to get it right but finally she achieved a result she was satisfied with. It would take redoing every few days but most of the company was more hair than dwarf anyway. Surely if she took half an hour every other evening to take care of her hair they would have no reason to complain. A brush, a mirror and a tin full of hair-ties joined the other things in her bag. Tomorrow, she decided, she would also get a few of her maps out of the study and take them along.

She chuckled ruefully and shook her head. Truly her habit of collecting maps of places all over and displaying them like pretty pieces of art should have given her a hint that not all of the Tookish wanderlust had been suppressed by her Baggins side. Or how much she loved the books that told of foreign places far beyond the borders of even Bree-land and the strange adventures that could be had in them. How foolish she had been to ignore the signs.

About five hours before dawn Bilbo fell asleep, satisfied that she had prepared for tomorrow as well as possible, no matter what tomorrow would actually bring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The bad table manners seemed extremely silly and purposefully exaggerated to me in the movie. It doesn't make sense that people who grow beards this long and take so much pride in braiding and decorating them would then so carelessly spill greasy food and sticky beverages into it. Their beards would be a disgusting mess.
> 
> **I think in the movie adaption the dwarves have no musical instruments except Bofur's flute (and maybe a fiddle somewhere? I don't remember). One of the things I love about the book are the musical talent the dwarves all show by playing instruments. Thing is, even as a kid I realized that it would be the height of impracticality to lug around viols as big as themselves (Balin and Dwalin), a golden harp (Thorin), clarinets (Bifur and Bofur) or a large drum (Bofur) on a journey like theirs. The only sensibly sized instruments were the flutes (Dori, Nori, Ori) and maybe the little fiddles (Kíli and Fíli). But even they didn't strike me as particularly _dwarvish_ instruments, if you will forgive the stereotyping. I didn't want to forgo the instruments but I still wanted to keep it realistic. So I took some inspiration from small instruments made from clay, stone, bone, horn etcetera, which struck me as materials more suitable for the dwarves than wood. The bow doubling as an instrument like Kíli uses it is real btw. It has many different names depending on the culture but I think generally it's just called musical bow.


	4. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin gets some bad news, trees all look strangely alike and Fili has an unexpectedly filthy mouth. Also, they finally get out of Hobbiton.
> 
> Many thanks go once again to my beta reader stickdonkeys.
> 
> Thank you also to flying icicle for helping me out with information on some timeline questions.

_A great longing for Erebor has seized their king. It is mid-summer, the nights are sweltering hot and the king's dreams are plagued with promising images of defeating Smaug and taking back the riches of their kingdom. When the king asks for volunteers he and his brother are amongst the first. How foolish of them all not to see the dreams for the deceiving lure they are._

_They need to cross the Misty Mountains before autumn makes the weather conditions unpredictable. They hurry on their way. Journeying east from Ered Luin they soon come across the North-South-Road which makes for fast travelling in these parts. They follow the road for as long as they can, only parting from it after crossing the Greyflood to turn east towards Khazad-dûm. They cross the pass near Barazinbar the Cruel with early snow nipping at their heels._

_The weather in the lowlands is still summery however and they make good time going north to the Gladden River and following it to where it feeds into the Great River. They celebrate Durin's day on these Shores and hope is high around the fire that night._

_The next morning they take advantage of a pile of driftwood to cross the Great River with a raft while the weather is still warm instead of using the known crossing at the Old Ford in a few weeks and risk getting wet in the cold. They are planning to press on to the Old Forest Road, the only way to pass through Mirkwood safely, and reach the settlement of men near Erebor before their food supply dwindles and the heavy snow-fall of late winter makes travel impossible. But fate has other plans._

_Soon after setting foot on Gladden Fields, wolves are upon them. Wolves aren't wargs and their axes and swords cut through their soft flesh easily. But there is something eerie about these animals for they aren't deterred by wounds nor by their dead and dying brethren and their numbers never seem to dwindle. The pack chases their weary group mercilessly and forces them onward back to the south. Every attempt to turn north towards Erebor again is averted. Soon they notice a flock of crows watching their every move, pairs of them coming and going at all times. It becomes clear that they are the spies of an unknown enemy for even attempts to flee in the dead of moonless nights are averted by wolves and groups of wayward orcs._

_Their only hope now lies in reaching the crossing of the Great River near Rohan, one of the southern kingdom's of Men. There they might hold out until the Great Gap and journey west again towards Ered Luin._

_He does not think they will make it._

_Their company is now on the very edge of Mirkwood where the forest bulges out, reaching towards the river. Not far from here the bald mountain rises above the trees, on the summit of which the fabled Necromancer has made his lair. He fears that the bewitched wolves and jeering orcs have herded them here at the sorcerer's behest, though for what purpose he does not know._

_The air is heavy with mist and the smell of rotten vegetation. It slides down his throat like oil making him gag and choke and gasp for air like a fish on the shore. It is eerily silent. The only sound except his own heavy breath and the frantic beating of his heart, are the footsteps of their heavy boots and their armour clinking on itself. There should be birds singing and the trees stirring in the breeze but even song-birds and the wind have better sense than to stay in this accursed place. He feels great evil and he swallows hard against the sudden terror. His brother is only three paces to his left, his king six paces in front, but he feels lonely and helpless despite the company._

_Of the twenty-nine warriors that joined the quest only six still live._

_The king calls halt for the night and uneasily they make a small fire for warmth and share out their meagre rations. He is the youngest and has the keenest eyes of all of them. They give him the mid-night shift to keep watch when the night is darkest. A noise startles him and he almost buries his axe in the pale figure before knowing him for who he is._

“ _My king,” he whispers and bows low. “Is something the matter, my liege?” The king dismisses his question with an angry wave of his hand. His other hand is white-knuckled and clenched tightly. As the king leaves the circle of light made by the fire and is swallowed by darkness he does not dare ask again. Only at the count of three-hundred heartbeats without any sign does he raise the alarm. But it is too late. The king is lost and there is no sign of him nor of the evil agents impeding their path._

Dwalin startled awake with the smell of green things clogging his nose. He half expected to see the trees of Mirkwood looming above him, but instead the low, wooden ceiling of the burglar's study greeted his gritty eyes.

On first appearance he was the only one awake but a quick glance at the guest room where Thorin had spent the night revealed the door ajar and the bed empy. The front door was closed but not latched and Dwalin peered curiously through the window into the garden. Thorin and Gandalf were standing on the path near the gate. The wizard was stony-faced, Thorin had his back to the house but he was clearly agitated, sharp and angry gestures marking his words. The wizard said something and Thorin went still. The longer the wizard talked the more tense Thorin seemed to get. A few more questions were asked and answered until – it seemed – Thorin thought more answers should be given and the wizard thought enough questions had been asked and they reached an impasse. The confrontation ended with the wizard storming off in a huff of wounded dignity and Thorin returning to the house sickly looking and his face grey as rock.

Dwalin quickly returned to the study before Thorin could see him. There he lit his pipe and turned dark thoughts inward until the other's woke.

\- - -

 

Bilberry awoke at half past eight – almost an hour later than usual – to an empty house and a mountain of dirty dishes. For one heart-stopping moment she thought they had left without her, then she spotted the note on the table. But the unexpected fear she had felt at the possibility made her realize just how keen she was to leave her restrictive and lonely life in the Shire behind. It dispelled the last of her doubts that had lingered from the night before and made her rather giddy with excitement.

 _Mistress Baggins!_ the note read.

_For your hospitality our sincerest thanks. We did not think it necessary to disturb your esteemed rest and will use the time this forenoon to acquire provisions. If our offer of employment is accepted, meet us at 11 o'clock at the Green Dragon Inn in Bywater. Non-appearance will be regretfully interpreted as declination of the terms._

_Faithfully yours, Thorin Oakenshield and Company_

At a run she could make it to Bywater in less than a quarter-hour, so there was still plenty of time. It probably wasn't wise to actually go there though. Personally she would love to parade out of town accompanied by a group of dangerous-looking _male_ dwarves and thumb her nose at the town-folk’s gaping mouths and scandalized noises. Oh she could just imagine their faces! It would set their tongues wagging for weeks to come, maybe even months. But she remembered Gandalf's warning from the night before well. Thorin wasn't a stupid man. He would notice the lack of care, the pitying glances and outright contempt the other hobbits treated her with and questions would arise. Questions she couldn't answer without lying or irreparably destroying her reputation with the dwarves as well. It would be better to handle this differently, she decided.

Sitting down at the desk in her study – where notepaper, ink and other necessities were all within easy reach – she first penned a quick note to Thorin. That was the easy part. Now for the hard but necessary part.

 _Dear Cousin Fortinbras_ , she began her letter. After agonizing far too long on how to explain her adventure and wasting valuable time, she finally decided to just straight-out explain the situation and make her wishes known. Fortinbras was a Took and while he took after his mother, a careful businesshobit and meticulous planner, he still understood the ways of the Tooks. She had high hopes that he would understand her motivations too. She folded the letter and sealed it with wax, addressed it to Thain Fortinbras Took II, Tookborough and took both note and letter outside.

As she had hoped, her neighbours' boy was getting his hands dirty in their herb garden at this time of day.

Young Hamfast's family owned a ropeway over-hill in Tightwalk. His elder brother was apprenticing with their father, but when it had become clear that the second boy had a regular green thumb he had been sent here to learn his trade from a distant cousin, Holman Greenhand. Personally, she though Hamfast rather young to be away from home and working. He was sixteen if he was a day, and even more green behind the ears than on his thumbs. If she were his mother she would have liked to keep him close for at least a decade or two longer. But Holman and his wife seemed to take good care of him at least. From what she had heard Hamfast was set to inherit Holman's smial here on Bagshot Row in return for his hard work. Not a bad prospect at all. Holman was old and in need of a younger back than his own to cope with the digging and weeding. Hamfast on the other hand would be able to settle down and marry as soon as he set his mind to it, with a trade and a home already to call his own. *

Holman had been their neighbour and her father's gardener for as long as she could remember. After Belladonna's death he had stopped taking care of the garden at Bag End, but he had never acted unkindly to her. The week after the funeral he had come to her house after dark and apologized for no longer tending the garden. She had understood, hard though it had been. Being Belladonna's employee was one thing, but working for her would harm his reputation and shame his wife tremendously. Poisoned tongues claimed that a barren woman made adultery easy and that any married man who talked to one showed intent. It was a difficult and precarious situation for Holman and Abelia living right next to her. The more it showed their kindness that they greeted her over the garden fence when they saw her, and Holman sometimes let her borrow Hamfast for small errands when she had the need.

Quickly confirming that no noisy neighbours were watching Bilbo stepped closer to the fence separating the two properties. Hamfast had already noticed her and was brushing the dirt from his hands.

“Good morning, Hamfast,” she greeted.

“Hullo Missus Baggins,” he replied, nervously looking at everything but her.

Taking pity on him, she decided to keep the encounter as short as possible. “I have an errand for you to run, if you would,” at his nod she continued. “I need you to go to the Green Dragon. There will be a group of dwarves residing there.” His wide-eyed look was filled with shock. “Don't worry,” she hastily reassured him. “You only need to give one of them this note, nothing more. After that I need you to take this letter to the post office. Here are two coins to pay for the postage; you may keep the rest for your time.” The pay was more than generous, she knew. One coin would have been enough to pay for the postage with plenty left over for the boy, but she wanted to make sure that he had the proper incentive to not dawdle on the way.

“Well go on then, and be quick about it!” she said, and watched as he jumped the fence and ran down the road as fast as a rabbit.

 

Fortinbras wasn't a bad sort. He was older than her by twelve years and his serious and responsible nature, even as a child, had often led to him watching over a whole gaggle of brothers, sisters and cousins - herself included. She remembered him well from those summers spent in the gardens and great smials of Tookborough. But as Thain, he spent a lot of time in the public eye. He had to be especially careful about his reputation and they had only met twice in passing in the last decade. After the divorce however he had sent her a letter of support and condolence and she corresponded regularly with him, keeping up with the family and the news she might otherwise have missed. She wouldn't consider him particularly close – no one was these days – but she knew he would do right by her. The letter contained the spare key for the house and provisions for what should happen to Bag End and her possessions if she didn't return for more than two years, at which time they should consider her dead.

Her father had lovingly built Bag End with his own two hands and she thought he would have wanted it to stay in Baggins' hands. Writing her will should have been easy as by rights the closest Baggins relative was her uncle, Longo Baggins. But he would eventually pass the house to his son Otho. Nothing against Otho, but his new wife Lobelia was a dreadful woman and her taunts had been amongst the most aggressive, hurtful and persistent ones. Lobelia had even tried to have her evicted from Bag End, petitioning to the Mayor that a childless woman had no need for such a large and rich smial. Thankfully the law was clear on such matters, but after all the trouble the last thing she wanted was for Bag End to end up in Lobelia's greedy paws after all.

Her youngest uncle, Bingo, and his son Falco were the next option, but she barely knew them and it galled her to give Bag End to people who might turn out to be as horrid as the Sackville-Bagginses. In the end she had given the decision into Fortinbras' hands. Bag End would go to the first Baggins of kind and decent character that had a true need for the home, the judge of which would be Fortinbras or any person of his choosing. If she knew Fortinbras well, he would delight in the fussy work of painstakingly going though applications and character references to find someone truly in need. It could take decades for him to find someone suitable, but Bilbo was fine with that. She wanted the right person to fill Bag End with children and life, like it had been originally intended by Bungo.

With a little sigh but determination in her steps she went to do the washing up. Then she packed her maps, a few more odds and ends, closed all the shutters and locked her door. The click of the lock sounded very final and she wondered if she would set foot into her hobbit-hole ever again. And if she did, would she still be the same old Bilberry she was now?

She didn't care. For now, the sun was shining, the backpack sat comfortably on her sturdy shoulders, the scent of freedom was in the air and soon the confinement of the Shire would lie far behind her.

She could hardly wait.

\- - - -

 

“Pretty nice living here, if one likes the outdoors.” Balin observed, letting his keen eyes glance over the quaint little houses, the lush gardens and the bustling market stalls. “Big selection of hardy travelling-food too, especially for folks that don't do any travelling.” He handed the merchant behind the stall a few coins in exchange for four big sacks filled to the brim with dried meat, truckles of hard, salty cheese, varied nuts and tins of twice-baked bread.

Dwalin took the sacks without comment and heaved them over his shoulder.

“Cheap too,” Balin added once they were out of hearing range. “They probably use it for winter storage. Hobbits do seem to have unusually large appetites. Must be difficult for them to stock the larders for an entire winter. Just imagine a dwarf-burg full of Bomburs and Noris. We would all starve afore the first snowfall.” Balin skimmed the stalls on the other side of the road. “And look at the rope, Brother. Very sturdy and well made. Good for emergencies I say. One can't have too much rope when going on a journey, don't you agree?” Balin picked up a length of rope pulling on it to test its strength and tied a few miner's knots to see how well they held. Satisfied he handed over a few more coins in trade for two thick coils of rope which he hung from his shoulders. He shot his companion a concerned look. It wasn't at all like Dwalin to be so close-mouthed, especially not in the company of family. “Their metal work is dreadful though. All brass buttons and copper handles. They seem fond of floral motifs but you can't tell a daisy from a sunflower they are so lacking in details. I'm a dwarf and even I could render blossoms better than that.”

Dwalin didn't react.

Balin hesitated. “Brother,” he finally asked, “is there something on your mind?”

Dwalin grunted. “Nothing more than should be on yours after last night,” he replied.

Balin knew Dwalin wasn't talking about the dragon, nor even Erebor. Smaug was an old topic, rehashed and talked about often enough. He lowered his voice, “So you heard it too then, what the wizard said.”

Dwalins face darkened, “Aye, I heard it.”

“Thráin,” Balin sighed.

Dwalin grimaced at hearing the name, “Thorin cornered the wizard this morn. I didn't hear what was said, but he has been in a black mood ever since.”

Balin's bright eyes dulled and he pulled the hood of his cloak lower to hide the sudden sheen in them. “It was bad news then,” he said.

Dwalin cursed and spat on the floor. “Don't play dumb with me, Brother,” he hissed. “You were there with me in shadow of that fell forest when the king vanished and was not seen again. You fought the orcs and other dark creatures, same as I did. You felt the evil that penetrated the very air and tried to choke the life out of us. Good news wasn't ever a choice.”

“Peace, Brother,” Balin soothed and clasped Dwalins arm, mindful of the nervous looks and the wide berth the hobbits were giving his clearly agitated brother. He couldn't blame them. Dwalin was a good fellow but his muscles were as large as his heart and the battle axes strapped to his waist were gleaming in the sun. “I meant that confirmation of a swift death would have been good news, considering the circumstances.”

Dwalin spat again but he allowed Balin to draw him behind the cover of a nearby building. “Good news was never a choice,” he repeated darkly.

“Poor laddie. Poor, poor laddie.” Balin said and thought of Thorin.

“Two kings in a row, slaughtered like beasts, their bodies defiled, their bones scattered. Neither of them honoured and laid to rest in stone, amongst gold and jewels and the bones of their forefathers. And we have no guarantee that this king will fare any better. It is too much to be borne, what has befallen the line of Durin.” With a broken cry Dwalin leaned against his brother's sturdy shoulders and wept.

Balin drew him closer and put a comforting hand on his bare head. “Poor laddie,” he said again, though this time he thought of Dwalin who was now a dwarf grown and a battle-tried warrior but who had been barely of age when mad King Thráin had started his doomed quest to reclaim Erebor. Like most warriors in these bleak days, his weapons had first been stained by Orc blood and his heart with the pained cries of his dying comrades. But it was the added burden of being the last to see King Thráin before his disappearance and failing to save him that still haunted Dwalin to this day. “My poor, poor laddie,” Balin said and wished he could do more to comfort his brother.

 

\- - - - - -

 

Thorin stood at the edge of the Bywater Pool and grimly stared out at the water. He had given Balin and Dwalin orders to get the supplies together. Fíli and Kíli he had sent for the ponies. The others knew to leave him alone in his current mood.

He shivered despite the warmth and drew his furs closer around his shoulders. The cold, he knew, came from within and nothing would warm him up today, but the familiar weight of the cloak gave him some comfort. Yesterday his heart had clenched and his breath stopped when Gandalf had mentioned his father. It galled him how easily the wizard had talked about Thráin, and how easily he had then dismissed the topic. He and his kin had spent years agonizing over Thráin's fate, and here the wizard was, mentioning him no more than in passing. Treating him like a trivial fact that paled in the face of the map and the secret passage it revealed. Thorin didn't know what Gandalf's motives were for wanting Smaug dead and Erebor retaken, but it had become clear to him that the fate of Durin's folk was the least of the old man's worries.

The time hadn't been right for questions yesterday and Thorin had swallowed them down where they lodged like rocks in his throat. But today he had slipped out of the burglar's home before dawn and managed to catch the wizard unawares in the garden. Thráin deserved that his kin knew of his fate but shamefully Thorin almost wished he had stayed ignorant. His father had died a miserable death, not knowing his own name nor that of his son after five years of torture in the pits of Dol Guldur. The orcs had more pity for lame Wargs which they killed by slitting their throats, than they had had for a king of the Dwarves. Gandalf had glossed over it for the most part but Thorin could vividly imagine the kind of pain needed to torment a dwarf into madness. Theirs was a hardy folk built to bear and survive more harm than most and Thráin had been mighty even amongst them. For the first time, Thorin wished that it hadn't been so. If father had been sickly and weak, made haggard by grief and hardship, the mercy of death would have been granted much earlier. But in the end, his father had held out long enough to pass on the map and the key as his inheritance and the Thráin Thorin remembered would have considered that the most important part and worth all hardship.

One thing gnawed at Thorin though, that he still did not know how and especially why Thráin had been taken. He hadn't been merely an incidental victim. That the rest of his company had been allowed to leave after he had vanished proved as much. Gandalf knew the reason, Thorin was sure of it. But no matter how hard he pressed, the wizard had revealed nothing and left in a huff at Thorin's rage at his refusal.

A field mouse coughed behind him and interrupted his dark thoughts. Or was it maybe little Ori clearing his throat? Thorin didn't bother to clear the thunderous expression on his face before turning around. Ori squeaked at the sight of it and Thorin felt immediately sorry. Ori was a few years older than Fíli and Kíli and unlike Kíli already of age. Unlike both his sister-sons however, who would one day become rulers of their people and, to his regret, had to grow up early, Ori had been properly coddled and protected by his parents and later his elder brothers. He seemed little more than a youngster to Thorin, untried, untested and surely not much older than Gloin's Gimli, whom they had left at home tugging on his mother's braids. Had the day truly come that his face was driving babes to tears? He lessened his glare and smoothed his brow until Ori began to breathe again.

“What is it, Ori?” he asked, knowing that his voice sounded harsh and coarse from unshed tears and unvoiced fury.

“The...there was a boy,” Ori stammered. “He brought this note. I...I think it's from the burglar.” Ori threw the note at him and fled.

Curiously Thorin stepped forward and picked it up from where it had fallen. Unfolding it he read: _To Thorin Oakenshield and company from Bilberry Baggins of Hobbiton. Your offer of employment is accepted with all conditions specified in the contract. Leave Bywater at eleven o' clock as agreed and I will meet up with you one league along the main road under the old elm tree. Gandalf will know where it is._

Thorin's brow rose in puzzlement. He knew nothing of the Shire and even less of the maze-like footpaths and walkways criss-crossing it, but surely the hobbit would take longer going by foot, even if she used a short-cut, than joining them here and riding by pony. The words showed knowledge of their mission and the paper the same kind as the one from her writing-table he had used to pen his own note. But he would be prepared for a trick and an ambush anyway, just in case.

 

\- - - - -

 

As it turned out Gandalf hadn't rejoined them by the time they were ready to leave and an ambush was the least of their problem.

“Which one of these trees is an elm tree, Uncle” Kíli asked and stretched his neck to get a better look at the surrounding greenery and the umpteen trees growing along the road.

“Maybe it's the skinny one over there with the white trunk and the silvery leaves,” Fíli chimed in.

Thorin looked doubtfully at the specimen his sister-son was pointing at. To his eyes it looked no more or less distinguished than all its brethren they had passed before.

“She said it's an old elm tree. Trees grow ever taller as they grow older, don't they? Personally I wouldn't stop for anything shorter than two-hundred feet,” Bofur voiced his opinion and craned his neck back even further to be the first to spot the crown of a gigantic tree high in the sky.

“You think that's enough?” Gloin remarked doubtfully. “Barely seems the height of a proper pillar to me.”

“Maybe it's the one with the bushy top over there,” Balin said, ignoring the others' foolishness.

“Or maybe it's the one with the green leaves. If only they weren't _all_ green,” Dwalin mocked and scoffed into his beard.

Thorin was spared more fussing and squabbling by fortuitously spotting a fleck of yellow in the distance.

“Maybe it's the tree with the hobbit growing from it,” he said and pointed to a thick and tall tree, standing alone in a clearing some distance away from the road and which, indeed, had their burglar merrily swinging from one of its lower branches.

“Well met, Burglar,” Thorin called and brought his pony to a stop. The hobbit dropped like a ripe apple and quickly ran up to their little group. Finally. Her face darkened, however, as soon as she faced them properly and she hesitated at the edge of the road. Thorin couldn't suppress a flicker of irritation. _Please_ , he thought, _by Mahal, no more delays_.

“What is it, Hobbit?” he asked gruffly.

“Oh, nothing,” she replied, all wide eyes and flushed cheeks. “It is just that hobbits don't usually use ponies for riding.”

Thorin shrugged, relieved that it was nothing more. “You will be grateful once we are on our way,” he said pragmatically. “The road is long and the packs are heavy. Get up and we will be on our way.” He clicked his tongue and signalled his pony to go. The others followed obediently. Only Dwalin, who had led the spare pony, stayed behind. Thorin didn't look back but he listened carefully to Fíli's cheeky commentary of Bilbo's progress and was satisfied when she made it onto Myrtle's back without falling off again. If any of the others noticed that he set a particularly slow pace for the next few hours then none of them were brave enough to mention it.

 

\- - - - -

 

Bilberry spent the first hour looking at the scenery and the second hour carefully studying her companions. They were a strange lot, these dwarves. A hotchpotch of different personalities, trades and looks, one couldn't have brought together a more diverse and curious group if one had tried. She had a good memory but to her embarrassment she still couldn't put names to half of them. Hopefully she could fudge it if it became necessary. A 'hey, you' had never harmed anyone, surely. A few of them were memorable enough to be easy. Most of all, Thorin and his nephews. Balin, too, because he appeared to be the next in charge after Thorin. Then imposing Dwalin, who was glowering at her at this very moment, and little Ori, who was ever-so polite for a dwarf. As for the others, she looked them over doubtfully. Some of them had names starting with a B, she was quite sure.

By unlucky happenstance she ever found herself riding next to Dwalin. It wasn't because he was such cheerful company but rather because her pony was slowest (or maybe her riding the worst?) and Dwalin brought up the rear as a look-out for dangers coming up from behind. So she kept her head down and studied his glowering countenance out of the corner of her eyes in deafening silence. He pretended not to notice her scrutiny, though Bilbo was sure he was a dwarf who didn't miss anything. She would have liked to ride in the middle where the dwarf with the hat was making merry conversation, but alas, her pony foiled her again and again.

Speaking of hat, the sun was coming down brightly and a hat to shade her eyes would do nicely now. “Bother,” she said to herself. “I forgot to bring my hat. There is always something.”

“You will have to manage without a good many other things before you get to the journey’s end,” Dwalin replied to her surprise. “But as for a hat, I have got a spare hood and cloak in my luggage.” He stopped and jumped off his pony. She hadn't yet learned how to bring her own pony to a stop and continued following the others. Dwalin joined her soon enough and threw a dark green hood and cloak in her direction.

The hood was weather stained and the cloak that could only be knee-length for Dwalin was almost too long for her, but she took both items gratefully.

“The cloak's dark,” Dwalin commented. “Much better for _your_ kind of business than the bright clothes you are wearing now.”

Bilbo had to admit that he was correct. Not that she knew any burglars, but if she had to imagine some then they would all be wearing black. The dark green cloak was close enough though.

“Much safer on the road too,” Dwalin continued and Bilbo wondered if he was always this chatty and she had misjudged him. “With the cloak, the trousers, your dwarvish braids and your height most Men will assume you are a boy-child of our race rather than a lass of another, even though your cheeks are barer than a pig's buttocks.” He ignored her spluttering protests at the comparison. “Men are ignorant in many things, but it will serve us well now. Even bandits who would hurt a woman will often leave a child alone, or least kill it swiftly.”

Bilbo shivered at the reminder of the dangerous road ahead and the many things that could go badly even before they would attempt to enter a dragon's lair. Trying to lighten the mood she drew two of her braids forward into her face to fashion a crude beard and moustache. She felt awfully clever when her antics drew a snort of laughter from Dwalin.

“Aye lassie,” he said, “a spot of glue and you are all set. Men and the elves are so stupid they would be fooled even by that.”

“Especially the elves,” the dwarf with the hat chimed in from the front. “The only thing they have growing from their cheeks are blades of grass.” The whole company roared with laughter though personally Bilbo thought the joke rather unkind.

“Oh be silent, Bofur,” the heavy-set dwarf with fiery-red hair and a single thick braid remarked. “A few jokes about elves are funny enough, but you have been repeating yourself for years.”

Bofur sputtered in outrage. “Well I like that _Mister_ Bombur,” he said. “Then maybe _Mister_ Bombur would like to tell a few of his best jokes, what say you?”

“I say,” Bombur said, “that a cook of my outstanding skills has no need to tell jokes, good or otherwise, _Mister_ Bofur. Be glad that you’ll get a stew tonight that is hearty and not oversalted. Any case, let the hobbit amuse us for a while. She is bound to come up with something we don't know yet.”

Bilbo found herself the sudden centre of twelve very eager stares, only Thorin was studiously ignoring the ruckus behind his back.

“That's a grand idea,” Bofur said.

“Sing us a song Mistress Baggins,” Kíli demanded.

“Or tell us a story,” Fíli retorted.

“I want a funny poem, please,” Ori yelled.

“Well,” Bilbo coughed and cleared her throat. “Well,” she said again to stall for time, because of all the hundreds of stories she had read and made up over the years, she suddenly couldn't remember a single one.

“I will see what I can come up with,” she finally said and shifted uncomfortably in her seat. That gave her an idea. “Does my pony have a name?” she asked.

“That's Myrtle,” Kíli answered, for he was the one who had bought the whole lot. “She's a slow nag but she's all we could get.”

“Myrtle,” Bilbo murmured, “Myrtle, Myrtle, Myrtle is one very fine pony. Hmm, well what about this then”, she finally said.

_Myrtle is one very fine pony_  
 _steady on paths that are stony_  
 _one minimal change_  
 _my behind would arrange_  
 _That her back were less hard and bony_

This produced much laughter and cheers. “You will get used to it, Mistress Baggins,” said Bombur once he had dried tears of mirth from his eyes. “Why, the first time I rode a pony my buttocks didn't stop hurting for a solid week.”

“And there's a lot of buttock on Bombur for pain to get around,” Bofur chimed in and collected a well deserved wallop with a ladle for his cheek.

“Thank you, Bombur,” she said kindly. “And please, you may call me Bilbo or Bilberry if you want.”

“Well, listen to this then lads,” Fíli yelled from the front.

_Bilbo was a lass from the Shire_  
 _Her situation was rather dire_  
 _when she rode bareback_  
 _her ass, it got smacked_  
 _and all because she was for hire***_

Bilbo could feel the blood rush to her cheeks and she gasped in outrage at Fíli's crude insinuation. This was surely going too far and judging by the gaping expressions of the others they rather agreed with her. Before she could think on how to react, Fíli gave a loud yell and landed in the dusty road with a thump.

“Mind your manners boy,” Thorin growled down from his pony. “We aren't so far away yet that I can't send you home to your mother, understood?”

Fíli nodded and turned as red as a ripe tomato. He clambered back on his pony and hunched his shoulder. “Apologies, Mistress Baggins,” he said. “I shouldn't say all my words out loud, or I'm going to lose my tongue to a knife one day.”

As far as apologies went it was a poor one, but she thought the sentiment was honestly meant. She knew a few men and women who in their tweens would have thought the rhyme so clever they couldn't have kept it to themselves either.

“That knife likely won't be mine,” she finally said. “But you would do well to remember that not all people are as forgiving as I am.” She gave him a stern glare and was satisfied when he scuttled off very much subdued.

She looked at the broad back of their esteemed leader thoughtfully. Thorin Oakenshield had once again managed to surprise her, one could almost assume that there was a decent being hidden somewhere under all the barks and scowls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *As much as I like the thought of Hamfast being the Sam to Bilbo's Frodo (or at least a loyal friend, as is the case in many fics), Bilbo is actually old enough to be Hamfast's father. If they were friends then it was probably not until later, and Hamfast telling stories about 'Mad Baggins' makes me doubt that anyway.
> 
> I think Hamfast Gamgee (the first to take this surname btw.) was rather young to be working as gardener's apprentice like he did in The Hobbit, especially as hobbits only come of age at thirty-three. But maybe what we are seeing here is the class difference at work (or not at work, as in the case of Bilbo, Frodo, Merry and Pippin). In any case, he was already living in Hobbiton at that time and apprenticing under Holman Greenhand, who was Bilbo's gardener. It is unknown if Holman did indeed live at Bagshot Row. But as tolkiengateway.net informs me that Hamfast likely already lived there at that time, this is the only explanation I can think of. Surely this young he wouldn't have an own house already? I did fib slightly in that Hamfast really lived two houses over from Bilbo and not right next door (Bilbo was No. 1 Bagshot Row and the Hamfast was No. 3).
> 
> **As you can see, I am following very much book canon with the fate of King Thráin II. Only the timeline is a bit wrong as Thráin started his journey in spring not in late summer. I am also explaining the extreme non-reaction Thorin has in the book upon hearing that his vanished-without-a-trace father was tortured into madness in the pits of Dol Guldur.
> 
> ***Bilbo and Fíli suck at poetry. Coincidentally, so do I.


	5. Chapter 4.1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They travel and they talk. Yes, that's pretty much it.
> 
> I feel like I should apologize to the more action minded amongst you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Important Author's Note** (kind of): Chapter four in it's entirety clocks in at just under 17K words without footnotes. My pre-reader told me it would be better to split that monster up into two parts. That's why you get 4.1 today and 4.2 in time for the weekend. Read in pieces now or in its entirety later, as you prefer. 
> 
> The footnotes are clickable now, btw. Click on the number to read the footnote and on the number again to get back to the part in the story.
> 
> My greatest thanks to my beta reader stickdonkeys. She went above and beyond with her corrections and comments and finished this in record time. Thank you so much!

Shortly after sundown Thorin called for halt in a suitable spot a bit off the road. It was protected from the wind and more importantly from sight by trees and a wild growing thicket. Bilberry thought that they hadn't made bad time and were probably closer to Frogmorton now than they were to Bywater. At a leisurely pace they would cross the Brandywine early the day after tomorrow and then it was another two or three days to Bree. 1

The company was glad to stretch their legs after a day sitting on ponies and they busied themselves in the faint evening light. Bilbo herself gingerly attempted to walk the cramps and stiffness out of her legs. On her second circuit of the clearing she almost stumbled over Glóin who was kneeling on the floor rummaging in his pack. He remained unruffled by her near miss and with a satisfied grunt pulled out a small box made from metal. The box was clearly old and hard-used, battered with dents and scratches marking its surface, but it was well made and engraved into the surface a beautiful and eerily realistic design of fire and smoke could be seen. It was of such fine details and craftsmanship that the flames appeared to dance and the smoke gave the illusion of curling upon itself whenever Glóin moved it in his hands. For one absurd moment she wondered if it would actually be hot to the touch. Curiously Bilbo stepped closer. Glóin didn't acknowledge her but he moved aside a little and bent his arm to give her a better view. She had noted this behaviour in some of the other dwarves too. That they acted kindly but tried to give the impression that they weren't. She wondered if this was dwarvish custom or if they simply didn't want to appear soft-hearted to an outsider.

The two halves of Glóin's container fit together so perfectly that only the lock on one side gave evidence to the fact that it could be opened at all. Glóin set it securely on his pack and flipped open the latch. As if summoned Kílí, Nori and Bifur each brought two generous arm-fulls of broken and hacked off sticks and branches from the woods and dropped them on the ground into a tumbled pile. Glóin sorted them by size and chose nine impressive branches almost as thick as his forearm which he laid out three by three on top of each other like a brick-layer. The gaps in between he filled with smaller branches and twigs. He drew a knife from the sheath on his belt and deftly cut strips of lichen-covered bark from yet another larger branch. He laid them out on top of the pile and pulled a length of what looked like brittle, coal-black rope from his box. Trimming a thumb-sized piece off one end he placed it on the bark. With one deft movement of flint on steel he sent a spark flying.

She liked that even Glóin's tools, like flint and steel, were subtly but intricately decorated with carvings and etchings and that the grip of the steel was realistically wrought in the shape of complicated knotwork. Hobbits appreciated decorated things but hobbit craftsmen tended to settle on simple floral designs without much detail and rarely was anything utilitarian like a tool decorated at all unless it could be done with paint.

The glowing spark unerringly settled on the piece of rope and formed the tiniest of flames. With a satisfied grunt Glóin held one slice of bark close to the flame and softly blew on it. It flared like ember and the flame spread to the bark. Patiently Glóin feed it more bits and pieces until the flames were strong enough to touch the wood below. Within a short time they had a hot and merry fire burning.

“You are very good at this, Glóin.” She complimented him. “At home I usually keep an oil lamp lit at all times to keep a flame. In winter I never let the fireplace go out at all because striking a flame is such tedious business. I only manage it at all with dry wood from my shed.”

He threw her a quick grin. “All dwarves are good with fire,” he confided to her. “Only a lit forge is a good forge. But I have always had a special talent for it. In weather were even the rangers of the north sleep in the dark and the cold, I and all with me rarely have to do without heat or light.”

Bilbo smiled, “It is lucky that we have you and your tools with us then.”

“Aye,” Glóin said and moved aside to make space for Bombur to set up his trivet and pot above the fire. “This is actually how I earn my coins back home in Ered Luin.”

“By making fire?” Bilbo asked, puzzled.

Glóin guffawed. “That would be right silly stomping in and out of houses lighting their fireplaces. No burglar, I meant that I make and sell kits for fire starting and for a few coins extra I will even teach how it's done. Especially Men are interested in these skills. I sell my wares at the market in the town near our dwellings in Ered Luin every week but sometimes I also travel south or east to the smaller communities along the way.” 2

“I have never heard of dwarves in the Shire. Do you only trade with Men then?” Bilbo asked.

Glóin shrugged. “It was before my birth when those decisions were made. I know we attempted to trade with your folk in the Shire shortly after we settled in the west. There was no success to be had. The hobbits were not interested and regarded us with suspicion. It was decided not to try again.”

“Oh,” Bilberry sighed, considering for the first time how her people's natural distrust towards strangers would appear to the strangers themselves. She knew that the caution came from fear. Hobbits were small and thought of themselves as weak in the face of adversity. They also disliked change and everything that wasn't proper and needed much time to get used to it. Once they did they were the warmest and kindest hosts one could imagine, but an outsider wouldn't know that and she could understand how they, not knowing the proper protocol of the Shire, would consider them rather unfriendly.

“You couldn't have known,” she finally said, “but you should have approached the Thain first instead of trying to trade directly with the people. The Thain would have judged your wares and your trustworthiness and introduced you around. You would have had no problems after that at all.”

Glóin waved her words away. “It's of no matter now,” he said. “But maybe I will return to the Shire one day and do trade your way then.” He picked up his box and showed her the contents. “See here, I have many different methods of starting fires for different weather, different skills and different moods. This here is blackrope, you saw me use it just now. It's charred rope and a small piece of it holds a spark for many minutes. The fire starting is the most important part. Once you have a big enough flame you can burn wet wood almost as well as dry. This is flamewood,” he pointed to a piece of light brown and yellowish wood which to her looked no different than any other firewood. “It's taken from the heart of certain trees,”

“What kind of trees?” she asked.

Glóin looked at her confusedly. “Green, needled ones,” he finally said, which said not much at all. He must have seen something of the kind in her face because he hunched his shoulders and frowned. “We dwarves don't have names for different trees,” he said defensively. “I know the right kind of tree if I see it and when I ask any dwarf for flamewood he knows what I mean.”

“Peace friend Glóin,” she said because she had a feeling that Glóin would stop talking and go into a sulk if she didn't. She judged him as quick to impassion, quick to anger but also as quick to calm down. “I was merely curious. It is of no matter. Maybe its pine, maybe its fir, I doubt I will ever need to know. You can show me if we happen to pass one and we will both learn something that day.”

Appeased Glóin nodded, quickly mollified just as she had thought, and went back to the contents of his treasure trove. “Flamewood catches flames easily, even when wet but it's always good to carry some dry kindling at all times. Though if all else fails there is always brennstone,” he pointed to several fragments of pale, yellow stone that looked soft and chalky. “You can always depend on brennstone. Wood and plants are good when things are easy-going but in the end a rock will always be the most dependable.” 3

Bilberry laughed, “Spoken like a true dwarf,” she said. She quickly continued before Glóin could go into a huff again or question what she meant with _true_ dwarf. “Is it a profitable business for you then?”

Glóin shrugged, “Well enough to get by I suppose. No worse or better than any other trade to be had in Ered Luin. But oh,” Glóin thrust both his arms in the air in the kind of dramatic and gregarious gesturing that seemed customary for him, “I can't wait for Erebor because Geirdís, my beloved, the spear that pierces my heart, deserves so much more than I can give her now.”

“Oh no, here we go again. He won't stop jabbering about his wife for hours now.” Dwalin muttered disgustedly and drew his hood lower over his face. Only now did Bilberry notice that her and Glóin's conversation had gained a large audience by virtue of them standing beside the fire where it was warm and bright and a delicious smell was beginning to waft from Bombur's pot. Glóin was unperturbed by Dwalin's comment.

“At our wedding I could only give her one single ruby for her braids, but when I next see her I will weave a thousand rubies into her hair and beard. I will mine them and sort them for years if need be to find them in just the right shade of red. They will blend into her hair and make it appear as if her hair itself is on fire. She will look like a queen.” Glóin had a dreamy smile on his face and Bilbo felt a sudden pang of unexpected jealousy and wistfulness. Emmerich hadn't looked at her like that even on their wedding day nor on any day after, and neither he nor anyone else ever would.

“Your wife has red hair then, like Bombur?” she teased Glóin to banish her own wistfulness. To her surprise, instead of getting offended on his wife's behalf at the comparison he took her seriously and looked critically at Bombur.

“Nay,” he finally said. “Geirdís' hair is ten shades darker at least, though to your eyes it might only be five. Dwarves can distinguish colour far better than Men which is very helpful when it comes to gemstones. It might be the same with hobbits. She also has more fire in her hair than Bombur, less yellow, more red. You see?”

Bilbo nodded and decided to quickly change topic before Glóin could start praising his wife's virtues some more. She was in no mood to explore her own wishfulness more deeply and besides, Dwalin and Bombur were rolling their eyes at their current exchange. “Tell me Glóin, this beautiful box, did you make it as well?

To her surprise the dwarf seemed almost hesitant, quite contrary to his sharing mood from before. “Yes,” he finally growled and then paused. The remainder of his words hung unspoken in the space between them. Disappointed Bilbo was almost ready to change topic again or else lose the conversation altogether when Glóin seemed to come to a decision.

“It is part of my second trade. I'm an engraver.”

Bilberry frowned. “Second trade?” she asked. “Is that a custom of the dwarves? With Hobbits someone may have many skills but most have only one trade with which they earn a living.”

“I am afraid it is a custom out of necessity for the dwarves of Erebor, my dear Bilbo,” a voice suddenly said.

Bilbo squeaked and jumped in fright. Behind her Gandalf appeared out of the shadows, seemingly from nowhere. Balin and Dwalin as well as Thorin, Fílí and Kílí all jumped up with their weapons drawn.

“Gandalf,” Bilbo gasped “You scared me. Where did you suddenly come from? We haven't seen you all day! I was beginning to think you wouldn't join us at all.”

The wizard looked at her and hummed thoughtfully. “I have no idea what you are talking about.” he finally said. “I have been nowhere else but here.”

Bilbo blinked. Wizards were surprisingly irritating as she was beginning to find out. For all she knew he could even be speaking the truth, maybe he _had_ been here all day just waiting for them to finally turn up. She decided to not let Gandalf get to her and turned back to Glóin.

“The wizard is correct.” Thorin suddenly said. A hush fell over the company and everybody subtly turned in Thorin's direction. Bilbo was absurdly reminded of sunflowers always turning their face towards the sun, though in this case it was quite the opposite. Thorin was standing outside the circle of fire and was almost invisible in the impending darkness. Only the periodic flaring of his pipe gave his position away.

“It is a cruel necessity for almost all who dwell at the Blue Mountains that their desired craft be relegated to second trade.” he said. “The only secrets the mountains there have left are small deposits of iron ore. It is hard work for little yield and for many years my people have struggled to survive.” Thorin's voice sounded dark and bleak and Bilbo regretted the loss of the jovial mood from before. She felt a deep sympathy for the man who was king without a kingdom and yet carried the weight of expectation of all his people on his shoulders. He probably judged himself far more harshly than any of the others did for they followed him gladly - obediently but not blindly. The easiest way to judge the merit of a ruler was to look for falsehood in the loyalty of his followers. She could only see honesty in any of Thorin's companions.

“Iron is a good and sturdy metal. Some have a true affinity for it and most can work it into steel for swords, armour and objects of daily life. Likewise the stone cutters and chisellers do not lack their materials. But for many of Durin's folk our skills only truly shine when working with gemstones and the precious metals like silver, gold and rare mithril. It is a poor kingdom of the dwarves when children grow up that have never coaxed silver or gold from rock and never shaped a ruby, a sapphire or a diamond to reveal its gleaming soul.” Thorin paused, seemingly overcome by emotions.

She was no dwarf. She had never longed for gold, never dreamed of jewels, never felt drawn to any craft nor trade that it became a passion above all else instead of a chore. But she could understand the emotions behind Thorin's words. The loss of something precious that went beyond the tangible, beyond things that one could use or buy or make and replace, was very close to her heart. She had felt loss, the loss of things that had been and the loss of things that never would be. It hurt.

“It is not the pride in our craft that's at stake,” Balin injected, giving Thorin the opportunity to collect himself. “It is the hard-earned and learned skills of generations of dwarves that came before us that is threatened to be lost. Out of the thirteen here only three of us have ever seen Erebor and Thorin was still almost a child with a child's memories. Properly done, every youth would have the chance to search out their true craft and apprentice under a master. But how to teach silversmithing when there is no silver to be had?” He sighed and averted his eyes. Thorin stepped forward and clapped a hand on his shoulder. 4

“Most of our treasure was lost to the dragon,” Thorin said, still holding on to Balin but catching her eyes over the fire. “But some objects were saved. Mostly jewellery and personal objects worn or carried when Smaug came. My father also led a group of brave souls to the smoking ruins of Dale and more was salvaged there. We didn't sell them even during the first two winters when we barely survived the hunger that gnawed on all of us and we had to depend on the charity of our kin from the Iron Mountains to survive.”

Bilberry suspected that this was what had galled the dwarves of that time the most. They struck her as a fiercely independent people. To ask for help, not in order to reach a common goal but out of sheer desperation must have hurt their pride and undermined their self-worth tremendously. Her sympathy went out to that unnamed ruler who had to lead his people through such difficult times and fear that any misstep could lead to their extinction. Had he been Thorin's father, or even his grandfather she wondered?

“We all knew there were things more important to our survival than food,” Thorin continued. “The most skilfully made objects were kept intact. They are still showcased in the central hall and studied by apprentices of all crafts. The others were disassembled for their stones and metals. There isn't a single piece of silver or gold in Ered Luin that hasn't been used by hundreds of hands to practice their crafts.”

“True, true,” Glóin sniffed, “It is better now that we are settled and have an established trade, but I still remember when I qualified for my mastery. My masterpiece was done in silver and I cried like a baby when it went back into the melting pot.”

“That's because you are a baby!” Óin, who had followed the conversation intently with his ear horn cackled. “When Geirdís was giving birth to Gimli you howled more than she did and you weren't the one squeezing...”

“I think that is quite enough my dear Óin,” Gandalf interrupted smoothly just in time to prevent a brotherly scuffle and the revelation of more personal details than Geirdís would appreciate to be publicly known. “As you can see Bilberry, there are many reasons why it is quite imperative for these dwarves to get back their home.”

“I'm beginning to realize that,” Bilbo murmured her agreement. She didn't want to appear too sympathetic. She didn't judge the dwarves as taking too kindly to pity, but their plight now so openly revealed made her sure of her decision to do her best to help them.

Bombur called for mealtime and she gratefully held her bowl out to be filled. There was enough food for a third portion even, though Bombur had to scrape the last one from the bottom of the pot and it was slightly singed. Nevertheless she sat down afterwards with a full belly and a satisfied sigh. So far adventuring wasn't much of a hardship at all.

One by one they began to settle down. Bedrolls were opened and bags stuffed with spare clothing fluffed up to be used as pillows. Hushed conversations soon stopped and Bilbo fell asleep with the sound of Glóin's snoring ringing in her ears.

\---------

They reached Bree in the early afternoon on the sixth day of travel. Bilbo was surprised at how exhausted she felt. Bree was still close to the Shire and she had visited before, but at that time she had travelled on foot and taken her sweet time with no care in the world. It had been summer and with sweet grass and bushels of heather to be had in abundance, she had never lacked a soft place to rest her head. With many brooks and streams along the way to cool her feet the journey had been very enjoyable, even that very first exciting and intimidating time when every step forward had brought her farther away from home than she had ever been before.

Riding a pony on the other hand took some time to get used to. She adored Myrtle on which she rode most days. She was a calm and gentle beast, but Bilbo still had a hard time feeling comfortable on her back for fear of falling. Often she felt like she was sliding off, tough mostly it appeared to be in her imagination only. As a result she tensed up and her muscles made her pay for it every evening. But she was getting more used to it every day and there were many things to distract her. She had to leave it to the dwarves, they knew how to make merry. There were so many stories told she could hardly remember them all and if story telling became tedious they unpacked their instruments and made music that put the fiddlers in any inn to shame. They were also surprisingly open to conversation. She hadn't expected it after that first evening of them being so rude, but it seemed their common purpose and her own honest questions had warmed them up to her quite well.

It might have been different in her old life. After her tweens she had become quite the serious Baggins, doing her best to fit in, and even more so after her marriage to Emmerich. If everything had worked out between them she wouldn't have appreciated the interruption of her comfortable and ordered life. Gandalf probably wouldn't have considered her at all for this quest, and if he had she would have politely but firmly closed the door in his face and gossiped about the horrible stranger with her neighbours the next day. Would the company have ended up with a different burglar, she wondered, or would they have had to do without? They could have found a burglar in Bree for certain. Maybe it wouldn't have changed much at all or maybe it would have been better for them in the end, but for better or worse, she was here now and here she would stay. Looking at her companions and breathing deeply from her pipe she honestly couldn't believe that her could-have-been-life would have been better than this.

\-----------

Thorin led them through the outskirts of town, avoiding the bustling centre. When he dismounted on the steps of a small, shabby looking inn the others looked at each other in surprise. It would be light for hours yet and while they had travelled at a steady but slow pace, Thorin hadn't allowed them to dawdle nor, especially to Bilbo's disappointment, allowed them to eat more than thrice a day.

“This might be our last opportunity for a nice bed for a long time.” Thorin explained grudgingly. “The ponies deserve the rest more than you lazy lot but I can't reward one without rewarding the other.”

“Hear, hear” Bombur cheered.

Thorin rented the last two rooms in their entirety even though each held nine beds apiece. Bilbo was the odd one out this time as she took longest to decide and finally opted to sleep away from Glóin and his infernal wood-sawing for one night, which roomed her together with Thorin, Balin, Dwalin, Kílí, Fílí and Gandalf. She was glad to see that despite first appearance the inn was clean, the bed linens washed and the mattresses surprisingly comfortable.

It was far too early to sleep and the weather too fair to stay inside. Fílí and Kílí seemed to think so too and soon they had the company outside in the sheltered glade behind the inn. Everybody was holding tankards of ale and the maid brought out platters of roasted meat and potatoes, bowls of hearty stew and, to Bilbo's delight, golden chanterelles well seasoned and cooked with browned onions in a delightful heavy cream sauce. A rare treat this early in the season and, best of all, spurned by all except Gandalf and Balin in favour of the meat, which left plenty for her.

After the meal Fílí soon became bored and challenged Kílí to a practice fight with the sword. From what she had observed Kílí preferred the bow over the sword or axe but he held his own against his older brother. Balin and Dwalin amused themselves by criticizing their technique and Bofur opened a betting pool. Bilbo was content to stay out of the way and watch their antics from a save distance. She let the sound of their cheering and cajoling wash over her.

Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Ori settling on a bench which stood in a sunny spot against a wall. He had a large, leather-bound book in his hand and carefully set a sturdy iron inkwell on the bench beside him. With a practised hand he dipped a dip pen into the ink and began filling the empty page with rows of neat little runes. The tip of his tongue was sticking out of the corner of his mouth and Bilbo turned away to hide an involuntary smile. Realistically she knew that Ori was an adult and likely older than her by some years, but there was something about him that made her want to tug his braids, ruffle his hair and sneak a piece of candy into his pocket. Two out of three actions he certainly wouldn't appreciate. Putting away these urges she walked over to where he was sitting and peered over his shoulder. Ori gave her an open smile and angled the book to give her a look. 5

“I am the official scribe for this mission and it is my duty to write down all important happenings of the journey for posterity,” he explained at her questioning look. “One day people will use this documentation to write songs about us, or else our eulogy.” He smiled but Bilbo feared that he was unlikely to be joking. She shuddered.

Ori's eyes widened. “Oh don't worry, Mistress Baggins,” he said. “I will make sure to mention your feats too. You needn't worry that your future bravery will be forgotten.”

Bilbo didn't have the heart to tell him that this was quite possibly the least of her worries.

“Thank you, Ori,” she said instead. “But surely we haven't done much yet that would merit writing down. Don't you want to go practice your fighting too?” she asked and nodded towards the other's where Thorin had now gotten into the action and was, to her eyes, trying to teach his nephews a very harsh lesson.

Ori shook his head. “Oh no...no, I don't fight with swords,” he replied. “...or axes...or anything much, really.”

Bilbo looked at him inquiringly. “Is this another trade issue?” she asked. “I thought all dwarves learned to fight. Or is it only the warriors after all?”

Ori blushed to the tips of his ears and his meagre beard did little to hide his flaming cheeks.

Bilbo was confused but sorry that she had shamed him in some way. She knew she was pushing boundaries with her constant questions. The dwarves were such a secretive race but it just felt so good to have folks to talk to again. She was quite out of practice and eager to make up for lost time. Maybe too eager.

“You don't need to explain if you don't want to,” she said.

Ori ducked his head. “Oh no, it's not as if it's a secret. It's just that...,” he hesitated. “it's easier to show you.” he finally said in a rush and abruptly leaned forward. “See?” he asked.

His face was so close to hers now that she could feel his breath warmly against her cheek and their noses were almost touching. It struck her that the last person who had come this close to her had been her mother. Her hands itched to reach out to him just to feel another living, breathing person under her hands. Giving in to the impulse she reached up and put both hands on his checks under the pretence of holding his head still. He didn't pull away and she allowed her hands to linger and soak in his warmth. Finally she looked over his face to detect what he tried to show her.

“Oh!” she said. “One of your eyes isn't looking at me.” 6

He nodded and regretfully she allowed him to sit back and pull away from her touch.

“It has always been this way, for as long as I can remember. Nori says it's because he dropped me on my head too often when I was a baby. But I think he's just teasing. Da said it was this way when I was born. My left eye looks straight ahead and my right eye looks at the clouds. Dori says that's where my head is half the time anyway so it's only fitting.”

“And this is why you don't fight?” Bilbo asked, wondering if she was touching a sore subject.

Ori grimaced hunched his shoulders. “Partly, I suppose, not really though. But yes,” he said with a laugh. “Sometimes I see double and a bit blurry, but it's not bad. I don't have any trouble seeing things or touching things or even hitting things. But Dori worries so. As a child I had to beg him to let me join the others for lessons and it went well, but after a month I stumbled, fell and sliced open my knee with an axe. Dori never let me go again afterwards. He says it's too dangerous and that I don't see well enough to train. I don't think that's true though. I may be a bit clumsy but others are too and they don't have any trouble learning. I also practice with my stone sling and I have very good aim. I don't think I would have that if my eyes were bad. Dori is just a fussy that way. Don't you think?”

“Maybe,” Bilbo considered. “But I don't know either of you well enough to judge.”

Ori accepted her excuse not to take sides with a lopsided grin. “I think so anyway. Because Dori was so fussy and concerned about it, many of the craftsmen didn't want to take me on either. They were afraid I would ruin the tools and materials even though that's not true at all. That's when I decided to apprentice with the scribe. I was sad at first and angry, but now I don't mind. I think I really only wanted to be a silversmith because Da used to be one. Being a scribe is my true craft. I love writing and I love that all of what I write is going to end up in history books and will be read by dwarves long after I am dead. They will read my name on the cover and they will know that Ori son of Eitri wrote these pages and that he was there when these things happened. It is a good legacy.”

Bilbo felt touched by Ori's simple but passionate speech. “You have a powerful way with words, Ori. I think you will be a wonderful scribe,” she said sincerely and enjoyed Ori's sunny smile in response. “Though I'm surprised your brother even allowed you to join this quest, if he is as strict as you say.”

Ori's mouth tightened. “He didn't want me to, but I'm of age and he can't boss me around any longer. Once Thorin accepted me into the company there was nothing he could do. That's when he and Nori decided to join me instead. Fusspots the both of them,” he grumbled. “Though,” he cleared his throat and lowered his voice as if confiding a secret to her, “it is rather nice to have them both here. This is my first quest after all and there is nothing better than family to take care of you in strange lands.”

Thinking of mother and father and the warmth of their care, the memory of which had carried her through many dark hours, Bilbo could only heartily agree.

“You know,” she mused after a few minutes of companionable silence, “I think you are on to something with your sling. As a youth I practised my rock-throwing skills so much that birds and squirrels fled the area whenever I was around. Folks who use swords and daggers, axes and bows may scoff at the humble rock, but if used properly it can be very deadly.”

“Quite!” Ori enthused. “It's a wonderful tool and I always make sure to carry a supply of the right rocks for my sling with me.”

Bilbo frowned thoughtfully. The road ahead was dangerous and she was painfully aware how helpless she was compared to the others. Surely it couldn't hurt to try? “Ori,” she asked, “Could you teach me how to use a sling?”

She was astonished to see that Ori looked delighted and eager at the prospect. He immediately laid his book aside and stood up. “I would love to!” he said happily. He hesitated, “Only, I have just the one sling and it isn't done giving your weapon to someone else to practice with. We will have to first make you one of your own.”

Swept along by Ori's enthusiasm they begged a ball of thin but sturdy hemp rope off the proprietor of the inn. Back on the bench Bilbo watched fascinated as Ori's deft fingers quickly knotted and weaved a flat, open-faced pouch hanging in the middle of two strong lengths of twisted cord, similar to a cradle. The pouch was large enough to hold a hen-egg sized stone. The strings were a bit shorter than her arms with one ending in a loop and the other in a fat knot. 7

“Now we will go a bit further afield.” Ori said and dragged her off the bench. Now that he had adopted the role of teacher he seemed much more assertive than before. “The ball of rope will be good for throwing for now. In the beginning you will have no idea where the rock will go. I almost knocked out another boy the first time I tried. A soft projectile will be safer, though you will have to adjust for the weight of the stone later on.”

They stopped on the edge of the woods about two-hundred paces away from the others.

“There are different methods to use the swing, I will show you my favourite first,” Ori explained. He pulled a stone the size of a cherry out of his pocket. “Firstly you put the loop around the fourth finger of your writing hand and hold the knot like this,” he demonstrated and held the knot firmly between his thumb and second finger. “Then you put the stone in the cradle and let your arm dangle down. Now you swing back, then forward with the movement and up in an ark. And at just the right time you let go of the knot.” Ori demonstrated and the stone whizzed through the air and hit a tree at least a hundred feet away with a satisfying crack. “See,” Ori beamed. “It's easy.”

“It is?” she asked doubtfully.

Ori looked bashful. “Well, no,” he admitted. “but if you practice it will be.”

Bilbo sighed. “Very well,” she said and held her own sling like Ori had taught her. She pulled the ball of rope into the cradle and tried to imitate Ori's movement. Instead her sling lost momentum at the apex of its arch and smacked her on the head.

“I can see why we are not using rocks just yet,” she said and tried again. And again. Finally she managed to release the sling at an appropriate moment and the ball went quite a distance down the field, albeit in a very different direction than she had intended.

“Very good!” Ori chimed. “Once you can hit this distance all the time we can begin working on your aim and other methods of throwing. Try again!”

Dutifully Bilbo trotted down the field to fetch the yarn. This was going to take a while.

\--------------

Even after the years of estrangement and distance between him and his brothers, Nori discovered that staying close to Ori still came as naturally as breathing to him. He had done so from the day Ori was born to the day Dori had banished him from their home for his criminal ways. Nori was sure that Ori hadn't noticed him standing just around the corner of the sunny little bench or else he would never have spoken so candidly about his brothers.

Maybe he should have done so to their face a long time ago.

Dori and he always tried their best to protect their little brother from all that might harm him. For the first time Nori considered that by coddling him so, they had almost smothered the flame instead of feeding it. That Ori flourished despite it was a testament of his strength. As always he felt fierce pride for his little brother, but for the first time he acknowledged that Ori's feats might be despite his care and not because of them as he had always liked to think.

If Ori knew the whole story behind their family he would probably understand better why they acted the way they did. But they had never told him, also in an attempt to protect him. Foolish.

On the day of Da's birth Mam had been three months shy of her ninety-first birthday. Even amongst their race this was a significant age difference between a mated pair. At that time she had long since finished her mastery and was trying to establish herself as a craftsdwarf with her own workshop in one of Erebor's lower levels. They didn't even meet until sixty years later when Da had happened upon her stall on the fifth-level trader's market. Da always claimed that on his part it was love at first sight. Mam told them that there was no such thing and that was good because looks said all of nothing and nothing of all about a dwarf's true measure.

Da had just started his apprenticeship, was fifteen years shy of his maturity and not yet allowed to start a courtship. Mam was sceptical and more keen on her craft than on marriage or children, especially with someone so much younger. But over the years they became very fond of each other and when father turned seventy-five there was no doubt that they would get married. Da said that the many years of friendship beforehand had only made their marriage stronger and more fulfilled.

Mam had been heavily pregnant when Smaug came and Dori was amongst the first children born in exile. It must have been incredibly hard for their parents, especially those first few years where everybody lived hand to mouth and no one knew what the next day would bring. To their credit, Nori had never heard them talk about Dori as anything but a blessing. But his own birth hadn't been until much later when the colony in Ered Luin was well-established. His parents never talked about it directly but some hints made him think that Mam, like many women at that time, had taken herbs to prevent a pregnancy until such a time where children were more sustainable.

And then there was Ori. Ori who had come as a complete surprise at an age where Mam had thought to be well past child-bearing age. Ori who had been born after a far too short but gruelling pregnancy as small and weak as a kitten. Ori whom they hadn't thought would survive until he did.

Mam had fallen ill soon after birth. A fever had ravaged her body for almost two weeks. She had recovered eventually but her health had suffered and a light illness, hardly more than an inconvenience for healthy dwarves, had proven fatal to her not five years later.

Da had been devastated and so had Dori and he. Mam had always been strong as an ox and healthy as one too, to see her so weak had been painful for all of them. Before Ori, Da had stayed home and watched over the children and taken on apprentices to teach silversmithing. Afterwards he had worked outside the home and looking after Ori had fallen to him and Dori.

Mam had to give up her trade as a wire drawer after coming to Ered Luin. Back in Erebor she had drawn wire down to as thin as spider silk. Thin wire she had knitted into fine netting for jewellery but more importantly, for Erebor's water-filtration in the pipes. There had been few able to make the netting as fine and even as her. Slightly ticker wire was used to painstakingly twist into thick strands of wire rope. It was hard and tedious work but well worth it for the security of the workers hanging high above the abyss to reach deposits of precious stones and metals. Wire rope proved more secure than hemp rope or even chain links and king Thrór demanded only the best for the workers of Erebor.

But such things had no place in Ered Luin were resources were scarce and Mam had gone down to the mines instead where her strength was of great advantage. In the evenings however she had often told about her old trade and Nori had hung on her every word, often dreaming of tools and techniques of working metal he only knew from her illustrations and words. He had known even then that this was his true trade and that he would only ever have a chance of learning it if they got back Erebor.

After her illness these conversations had mostly stopped and Dori had taken her place in the mines. For years Nori had watched Dori come home more depressed and downbeaten every day. Dori may have Mam's strength but he very much had Da's character. Dori adored the fine, detailed work of a silver- or goldsmith, he delighted in small, intricate patterns and decorations. The smaller the scale he could work on, the happier he was. He hated the backbreaking work of heaving rock that often made it impossible for him to sit bowed over in his workman's chair without pain in the evenings. He despised the calluses the pickaxe gave his palms which made it difficult to feel and hold his small tools. Most of all he hated the dull, grey rock-dust that permeated every pore of his body, every fibre of his clothes and clogged up everything he worked on. Nori just hated how miserable Dori became.

When Ori was still small Nori had taken up knitting to supplement their income. It was a technique Mam had taught him to demonstrate how fine wire-netting was made, but the Men in the village employed similar techniques to make clothing and Nori had picked up the patterns easily. Selling socks, hoods, sweaters and shawls didn't earn him much but it made life a bit easier for all of them. It had the added advantage of keeping Ori warm who was very prone to the cold and often shivered in the night and fell sick during wintertime. When Da too eventually succumbed to old age the few coins earned made even more of a difference.

After Ori was old enough to stay home alone for a few hours Nori had discovered that his nimble fingers for knitting were also useful for something else. Pickpocketing in the settlements of Men was not a glorious occupation but it afforded them a few more luxuries and Nori took care only to steal from those who looked like they could afford it. Dori, good trusting Dori never questioned his excuses for the money until the day Nori got caught for the first time. It had been Dwalin, captain of the guard who had dragged him home in disgrace, acting upon the complaints of Men. Dori had paid almost all their savings as penance to spare Nori time in jail. Nori was ashamed now to think back on it but at that time he had only thought of the riches owned by successful merchants of Men and how much better their life would be if they could only get a part of it. Dori had given him an ultimatum but Nori in his arrogance had not believed him. The next time he had come home with coins that didn't belong to him Dori had thrown him out and forever barred the doors of their family home.

This quest was his repentance. When he had heard of Dori and Ori volunteering he had known that he couldn't let them go alone. No matter that Dori hadn't spoken to him for years and hadn't let him near Ori either, he was their brother and it was his duty and privilege to protect them.

Up until now he had thought that he only had to make amends to Dori. Ori had sweetly welcomed him as if they had never parted, Dori on the other hand hadn't talked to him once in the last week. But now it seemed he also had to apologize to his younger brother, albeit for a very different reason. Ori wasn't a child any longer and he was far more capable than they had ever given him credit for. They needed to allow him to shine on his own, but for that to happen, Nori had to talk with Dori and more importantly, he had to make Dori listen to him. That would likely prove more difficult than he was prepared to handle right now.

There was one thing he _could_ do however. Bilbo Baggins had been very kind to his brother. She had not mocked him; instead she had praised his decisions and even asked for his opinion and help. That was more than he and Dori had ever done for Ori and he was deeply grateful to her.

He had noticed that even on chilly mornings Bilbo didn't put on gloves to hold Myrtle's reigns. He could only conclude that she hadn't expected to need them with summer fast approaching. He could understand why she would think so, never having left the Shire for a day in her life, but he knew how unpredictable the weather could get the nearer they came to the mountains. The Misty Mountains were notorious for cold spells even in summer and a good, warm pair of gloves would make a decent thank-you present for the hobbit. Maybe a shawl too. Now he only had to pick up some decent wool.

\------------------

1 I am never entirely sure about travel times in middle earth, especially in The Hobbit as in my estimation they take forever to reach Rivendell compared to Frodo in LotR. All times are therefore pure estimations and guesses made with my trusty map of middle earth, the known dates of events in The Hobbit and splendid sites like this one: theoriginalseries.com/traveltimes.htm

2 Incorrect. As far as I know Bree is the western most settlement of Men. But this time I decided to go with Peter Jackson's version because it's just easier having the dwarves trade with Men.

3 It's pine. My flamewood is actually called fatwood and it's the resin impregnated heartwood of pines. The resin makes it super flammable. Brennstone is sulphur, biblically also known as brimstone. Brimstone means burnstone and brenna is merely a germanic/old norse term for 'burn'. Now I admit, I didn't research firestarting as well as I probably should have, considering Glóin's passion for it. Hopefully I didn't get too much wrong :-).

4 On the ages of the Dwarves. Originally Thorin is the eldest of the dwarves. Realistically this doesn't work for how they look in the film. In my story Thorin is still one of the oldest (though well-kept) but Balin and Óin are older than him by moving their DOB back by about 70 years. This makes Balin and Óin both considerably older brothers to Dwalin and Glóin, but I think with dwarves some 70 odd years between births can still be argued as realistic. It's not perfect (e.g. Dori is younger than Thorin despite looking older) but I'm chalking this up to different rates of ageing. Canonically they do differ greatly. Example, Dwalin lived to 340, Dáin II Ironfoot was still fit when he died in battle aged 251, his grandfather on the other hand thought himself too old to join the battle of Azanulbizar age 236 and died eight years later of natural causes. That's a pretty wide range of what is considered old for a dwarf right there.

5 Note, Ori is using a dip pen not a quill. It was the natural materials vs. crafted metal debate again. When it comes to the dwarves metal will almost always win with me. A dip pen is basically a metal-quill anyway, it didn't seem too far-fetched to me.

6 This probably needs an explanation. While developing the plot and character backstories I looked at a lot of photos of the characters. In many of the publicity stills of Ori it looked to me like his right eye (on the viewers left) was pointing upwards when he was looking straight at the camera. On closer inspection of high-res images it looks more like his left pupil is larger than his right which makes it look like his eyes aren't pointing in the same direction, or maybe it's merely a trick of the light and angles. But by the time I figured that out, Ori having strabismus was already half part of my backstory for him. In any case, I think they did something with the actor's eyes in his mask as Ori (because I don't notice anything in stills of Adam Brown) and I decided to go with it.

With the help and experience of the good folks at the little-details community I found out that strabismus, even uncorrected, is mostly surprisingly unencumbering. The brain is an amazing thing and can compensate for a lot, especially if it is a birth condition. As such Ori's problems stem more from an unrelated clumsiness and the overprotectivness of his brothers, rather than the condition itself. I have tried to portray Ori's strabismus and the influence it has on his life realistically, to the best of my knowledge. But if you find any fault with it, please do let me know.

7 What I am trying to describe is called a shepherd's sling or simply sling. The 'cradle' part is often made from leather but I liked the simplicity of knotting string. The sling is one kick-ass weapon! If you want to get an idea of how much, read e.g. this thread [here](http://www.myarmoury.com/talk/viewtopic.16063.html). I like Peter Jackson's idea of Ori having a different weapon than the usual, but a slingshot didn't seem right to me. While rubber was used as early as 1600 BC that was in South America where rubber trees grow. In Europe the boom didn't get started until the 19th century and the invention of vulcanization. In theory I have no problem with rubber trees growing somewhere in middle earth or being imported but, if they had rubber I seriously doubt that a slingshot would be the only use they would find for it. In any case, the slingshot scene seemed more comic relieve than anything else and as I don't really appreciate that kind of 'fail' humour I decided to go a different route.


	6. Chapter 4.2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Travelling and Trolls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, part two of chapter four. I hope you enjoy. Feedback (good or bad) is very, very much appreciated!

The area became wilder and more uncivilised the further east they came. Over the weeks, lush farmland where the winter rye was almost ready for harvest, fruit trees stood in bloom and small communities dotted the countryside, slowly gave way to rocky terrain overgrown with sturdy grasses, low, thorny bushes and occasional stretches of beech woods. Here no communities thrived and the stark land felt abandoned and wild. Lone farms with a day's travel or more between each, were the only settlements. They were rarely near the road on which they travelled, but sometimes a smoking chimney or the sun reflecting in a window could be seen in the distance. The only true sign of life in these parts however were the flocks of sheep that huddled together for protection and grazed on the plants. Many were recently shorn and often guard dogs could be seen in their midst. They had to belong to someone, Bilbo reasoned and therefore the _lone lands_ as they were named on her map couldn't be entirely as lonely as they appeared.

The terrain was hilly and it was slow going. The Ponies had to watch their steps on the rocks and the road was badly maintained. In many parts it had been obliterated or overgrown altogether and they had to take care not to lose their way. For three more weeks after leaving Bree they were lucky and the weather held steady with sunny days and balmy spring-temperatures. The journey was tedious but not unpleasant. Then the wind changed and cold air from the far away mountains turned the days chilly almost over night.

Bilbo was now doubly glad for the cloak that Dwalin had lent her. It was spring, nearing summer, and she truly hadn't expected cold weather like this. On two occasions she had woken up in the early morning with a dusting of frost covering the ground. Her clothes were warm but often not warm enough, even when she wore two shirts on top of each other. Fog and periodic drizzles from the thick, low-hanging clouds soon ensured that none of them had a comfortable journey any longer. Bilbo was better protected from the rain than the others due to her father's cloak but the dampness had a way of creeping in and her clothes clung to her most uncomfortably.

The wet and cold pressed on all their moods. The stories grew less as the grumbling grew louder and conversations ended in snapping and sulking more often than not. Some dwarves like Balin, Dwalin and Thorin himself bore the weather in stoic silence, steadfastly ignoring the wind and the rain. She thought Bifur fell in this category as well, tough it was hard to tell because he rarely spoke anyway. Bofur, Bombur and Kílí all tried to outdo each other in playing music and telling jokes in a desperate attempt to keep their moods up. Of them all only Gandalf seemed completely unaffected. He smoked his pipe, hummed into his beard and looked at the raindrops that landed on his nose as if they held all the secrets of middle earth.

The evenings around the fire were more comfortable, but trees which could give them shelter from the rain during the night were less abundant than in Breeland and some nights none at all were to be found. One such evening, with dark only a few hours away and no shelter in sight Dwalin stopped by a flock of sheep and thoughtfully looked down a hill into a small dip in the landscape.

“Smoke,” he finally said and nodded into the distance.

Thorin rode up beside him and looked in the same direction. “Agreed,” he said.

Bilbo squinted to where they pointed and thought that she could just make out a small column of chimney smoke, almost invisible against the slate grey sky.

“It's probably a farmhouse,” Thorin said. “If there is livestock then Men can't be too far away. We will see if we can find shelter.” He turned his pony down the hill and they all followed like ducklings in a row. After half an hour they could now clearly make out the thatched roofs of a farmhouse and a barn. Thorin stopped.

“Hobbit,” he called.

Bilbo urged Myrtle forward. “Yes, Dwarf,” she replied.

Thorin glared at her but she pretended that it wasn't very effective and didn't react.

“Bilbo,” he grudgingly said and she counted that as a victory. “You and I will go first and talk to them. People living as isolated as they, will be leery of strangers and doubly so of an entire group. You are small and unthreatening, they will be more inclined to trust me if they see you. Hopefully we can bargain a dry place to sleep for tonight.”

Bilbo felt more than amiable at the prospect and eagerly led Myrtle in step with Thorin's Daisy. It was the wife of the house who saw them first and quickly ushered two little girls into the house. They stopped just outside a fenced-off area where someone, presumably the women they had just seen, had made an attempt at a herb garden. They didn't have to be patient for long, for few seconds later a Man appeared in the doorway, holding a crude looking sword in one hand. He glared at them suspiciously, his eyes flicking first to her then settling firmly on Thorin, clearly judging him as the only threat.

“What you want?” he called.

Bilbo smiled at him, though it felt strained and probably looked the part.

Thorin ignored the sword as well as the hostile tone and bowed as low as Daisy's neck would allow. “I am Thorin, at your service, Master of the house. I and my company of fourteen are on our way east to the Misty Mountains. The weather is wet and we are weary from the journey. We won't be any bother to you and yours, but is there any shelter to be had?”

After a few tense moments the man lowered his sword. “You folks won't get food. If you bother the wife or the children I will make you hurt. You can do the evening chores for a night in the barn, but I want you gone by dawn. Bargain?”

Thorin nodded. “Bargain,” he said.

The man grunted. “Then you, your wife and your men are welcome.”

Bilbo was gob-smacked at the man's assumption but just as she opened her mouth to protest Thorin reached over and squeezed her hand. Astonished she stayed silent and let Thorin lead her out of the courtyard. His palm rested warm and rough with calluses against her own. She refused to think about why her heart was thumping far too fast in her chest and why her cheeks were hot and flaming.

Once they were out of sight from the house proper Thorin pulled back his hand. Almost regretfully she withdrew her own and quickly stuffed it inside her cloak. The sense memory made her skin tingle.

He turned to her. “Apologies for the deception,” he said. “The mores of Men are sometimes difficult to handle. He recognized you as a woman and for Men it would be improper for one who is not married to travel with a group of males. It was natural for him to assume you are my wife. I should have thought ahead and introduced you as my sister, but it slipped my mind. If we had denied his claims he would like have denied _us_ shelter.”

“It is alright, I understand” she said and cleared her throat. Her voice sounded strange to her own ears. “Hobbits are of a similar mind as Men in this regard and I have wondered why you and the others have accepted me so easily amongst you.”

Thorin grimaced. “This isn't a topic we talk about with outsiders,” he said curtly. 

Bilbo was disappointed but grudgingly accepted the dismissal. She had to remember that her curiosity didn't give her the right to actually know. For the next few minutes they rode in silence until Thorin abruptly stopped just out of earshot from the rest of the company. Bewildered, Bilbo came to a stop beside him. The others watched them, some with raised eyebrows and confused expressions, but they all respected Thorin's privacy and stayed put.

“Since you are part of the company I cannot deny you knowledge that directly concerns you,” Thorin hurriedly and quietly said. “The simple truth of the matter is that there is no significant difference between dwarf women and dwarf men beyond the necessary.” He glanced at her as if to assure himself that she was listening before lowering his eyes to the ground again. “All seven fathers of the dwarves as well as the mothers were hewn from the same stone by Ma... the Maker and made in his image. If it was his intention to divide us, then he did so by craft and talents and by clan, but by nothing more. All dwarves grow beards, all dwarves are as strong and hardy as the mountains and most importantly, all dwarves have a true craft to call their own. Who am I, indeed, who is _any_ mortal to deny a dwarf their true craft because of their sex? Should I eschew a fine sword crafted by a master smith because she happens to be a woman? Should I deny a born mason to learn the secrets of their trade according to their sex? I cannot and I _will_ not!“

His jaw was clenched and he looked at her with such fierce determination that it sent shivers down her spine. 

„We dwarves know that Men and even elves don't see this the same way we do. This makes relations with them more complicated.” He paused and the silence between them stretched out.

“What do you mean by _complicated_?” she finally asked when she couldn't bear the tension any longer.

He cleared his throat. “A very long time ago dwarf women didn't hide their bosoms when outside their homes, they didn't deepen their voices and they didn't call themselves brother or husband or nephew, but sister, wife and niece. When our people began to settle near men and trade deeply with them our ancestors realized that Men would often look down on our women. Many would mock their beards, their muscles and their stature. There were also attempts to sully their honour and...unwanted advances. We noticed that the men and women of Men have strict cultural rules on what they can and can't do depending on sex. They didn't regard our folk kindly for breaking with these norms, even though they knew that their customs weren't our customs. Over time it became easier for our women to hide their sex when travelling or interacting with outsiders. It has become second nature and by now dwarf-women are indistinguishable from dwarf-men for anyone but dwarves. It is because of _our_ customs that no one in the company will treat you differently, even if your own customs demand it.”

Bilbo's head reeled at the explanation. She had known that dwarves were queer folk in many ways, but she hadn't thought that their differences were this great. Unkindly, she thought that hobbits could well do with a bit of dwarvishness. A thought occurred to her and she frowned. 

“Why then is there no woman amongst the company?” she challenged him.

Thorin looked at her blankly. “Men are indistinguishable from women except to dwarves,” he repeated slowly as if he was talking to a small child.

Her head was still reeling at the possible implications of this when Thorin waved the others over and there was no more time to talk nor to question him further. 8

\---------------

The farmer watched them suspiciously as they took over the evening chores. His wife used the opportunity to lighten her own load and dragged out thick, heavy carpets and all the bedding for them to hang up and beat the dust out of. Fílí, Kílí and Ori made a sport out of it, each trying to outdo the other in how large of a dust cloud they could make. Thorin and Balin used the farmer's own small smithy to make reparations to an old plow. Bilbo fed the chickens and was then led off by two giggling girls almost as tall as she was to milk the cows. Gandalf and Dwalin then joined the farmer to bring home the sheep to a fenced off pasture for the night while Bombur prepared the evening meal and Óin helped Bifur to stay inconspicuous as the axe head stuck in his skull tended to frighten people. Nori himself went down to a nearby stream with Dori ten times each to get buckets full of water to fill a huge, rusty water tank to the brim.

As dark approached and the evening chores were done the farmer showed them to the barn where the last of the winter hay made for a cosy bedding. The barn smelled faintly of wet sheep but it was warm and dry and had a fireplace for when the farmer had to stay for a lambing so no one found reason to complain.

While the others settled down for the day Nori went outside again, well aware that Dwalin was watching him suspiciously as he had done every day since the start of the journey. It was blasted bad luck that Dwalin of all people was also part of this company, but in a way also amusing to keep the older dwarf on his toes. He was far too serious and dour anyway.

The farmer had forbidden them from entering the house proper, but Nori hoped for an exception once he pleaded his case. He knocked and bowed low as the Man opened the door. “Nori, at your service,” he said and ignored the displeased expression on the Man's face.

“What do you want?” the farmer barked. “I told you, we have no food to spare.”

Nori smiled disarmingly. He knew that he looked quite unthreatening and even a bit funny to Men. A trait that had often served him well. “Nothing like that, kind Master of the house,” he said. “Rather I thought of your sheep and wondered if you or your kind wife have any spun wool for sale.”

“Yarn?” the Man asked disbelieving.

Nori continued smiling. “Yes, for knitting. I would like to purchase some.”

Nori wasn't sure if it was the word _purchase_ or the word _wool_ that softened the Man up, but his expression became somewhat friendlier.

“It's my wife's business,” he said. “Have to say, she has the cleverest fingers at spinning far and wide. You won't be disappointed.”

Nori gave him a friendly nod but inwardly he didn't get his hope up too much. Every sheep farmer's wife had the cleverest finger at spinning, out of necessity, true enough but more often than not simply because of a lack of competition. The Man let him inside and his wife led him to the back into a separate room. In one corner sat two spinning wheels, clearly well made, well used and dearly treasured. Six vats filled with dark liquids stood on the floor. Skeins of wool were submerged in them to take on the colour. On the walls racks of them hung out to dry or were already rolled up ready for further use. Nori had to admit that he was very impressed. It was a stroke of luck that he had decided to purchase wool here. Most spinners settled on two or three different colours and were well satisfied. Here he could count at least twenty different shades of all colours. It was clear that for this women making wool was more than a chore and alike a true craft. Maybe her husband hadn't exaggerated when he described her spinning fingers. 

Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face for the woman smiled proudly at him. “You are in luck,” she said. “There is a crafts market twice a year three days travel north-west, I sell almost all my stock there every time but we won't leave until next week. If you had come later only the dredges would have been left.”

Genuinely pleased, Nori let his eyes wander over the unexpected treasure of colour. He recognized the source of many of the shades, alder bark, juniper berries, red cabbage, dandelion root and many different kinds of leeches, fungi and plant roots. She had to be a very dedicated gatherer and trader as some of the plants weren't even native to these parts. He finally chose skeins in a very dark red (madder root and red cap leechen) paired with a bright yellow (berberies) for Bilbo's gloves and scarf. After some deliberation he also picked a beautiful light sea green colour as well as a light purple (both red cabbage one set with acid one with a base) with an understated silvery tinge, which he thought might suit Dori well. 9

“Do you have some plain sheep roving at hand too?” he asked and gladly took what she handed him. Separated into wisps and knit into the yarn on the inside, it would make the gloves soft and very warm even in snow.

“How much do I owe you?” he asked.

“How much is it worth to you?” she replied shrewdly.

Nori opened his coat and drew a small leather bag from an inside pocket. He opened it up and carefully spilled the contents in his hand. It were ten delicately decorated buttons shining in the dim light and ready to be used as finishing touch to a special garment. They were only polished black rock but they were still dwarven-made. Nori had bought them from a master of her craft and it showed. He had intended them for his own coat before the quest started, but now he felt them better used in trade for the wool. He hadn't paid much for them but he knew she wouldn't find better craftsmanship anywhere else in these parts. If he interpreted her expression correctly she knew that too.

They were both satisfied with the trade and clapped hands with a smile. Nori packed his loot away in his bag, careful to store them so they wouldn't tangle. As he was about to leave the room the woman stopped him and drew him aside.

“My husband didn't want me to say anything because we aren't sure, but it doesn't feel right to let you go off without a warning. These last few months we have noticed a lot of sheep gone missing in the eastern pastures. At first we thought it were wolves or bears hungry after a long winter, but last month half a herd vanished without a trace. The traps caught nothing, some were even destroyed and our dogs whimper in fear instead of giving alarm. Since we moved all sheep west nothing more has happened, but something dangerous lives out there in the east. Far too close for my comfort. You have to be careful!” Her eyes were wide and worried and he could empathize with her fear. It was a dangerous world out there and even more dangerous here in the wild where help was often much too far away. He wondered how she could leave her two children out of her eyes even for a moment when he and Dori hadn't managed that with Ori at all even in the relative safety of their mountain dwelling far in the west.

“Thank you for your warning, you are very kind,” he said heartfelt and gave a small bow. 

As he left the house Dwalin was waiting for him. Nori grinned cheekily and winked at him enjoying Dwalins confused look. “Dwalin,” he called, “I have something for Thorin to know.”

Confident that Dwalin would deliver the message Nori settled comfortably into a spot near the fire and started his first rows of knitting in the dim fire light. He looked at Ori who smiled at him, at Dori who still ignored him but didn't move away when Nori sat down next to him and lastly at Dwalin who still watched him but now sometimes stopped scowling when Nori smiled or winked and he thought that maybe this quest had been the best idea of his life.

\-----------------------------------

The night in the Barn had merely been one last small respite. Only two days later it seemed like an ocean was pouring down from the sky. The rain came down so thick that they could barely see three feet in front of their noses. They roped all ponies together two by two and in a row that no one could be lost. In the deluge nothing and no one stayed the least bit dry and there was no respite for the next three days. The first two nights they built lean-tos out of sticks and cloaks in coves of trees and huddled miserably underneath them as close to the small fire as possible. On the third night however there were no trees, no woods, no coves to be found and for the first time Glóin's skills failed them. 

Cursing and hitting the ground with his fist he stood up from where he had been kneeling. “It is no use,” he yelled over the sound of the wind and the rain. “I can strike a flame but as soon as it spreads the fire is drowned. There are no trees to protect it and not much wood to be had in any case. We won't have a fire until this torrent stops.” He scowled angrily and glared at anyone who dared to look at him.

“Wizard, do you have a suggestion?” Thorin called. Then they noticed that Gandalf had vanished. Again. He had come and gone without explanation or notice off and on the entire journey. Often travelling with them, always returning but never a true part of their company. He had laughed much, eaten much and talked much, but never said if he was part of the adventure or merely keeping them company. It was dratted inconvenient at times.

“Oh,” Bilbo said to herself, “how I wish to be sitting in front of a fireplace wrapped in a quilt, a solid roof over my head and with the tea-kettle just beginning to sing.” It wasn't the first time she had wished this in the last days, nor would it be the last. Glóin, who had overheard her, glared and she quickly looked away. What a thoroughly miserably day.

Nori peered intently through the rain and the oncoming darkness. “There,” he said and pointed with one hand while tugging on Dwalin's sleeve with the other. Dwalin glowered at him and roughly pulled his arm away, but then looked at where Nori was pointing. It wasn't much. A smudged, dark spot on a hill against the landscape. Maybe a wooden area, maybe nothing at all, but at least an hour's ride away, probably longer in the dark. In the end they decided to chance it anyway despite the fact that they had to rely on lanterns to find their footing in the pitch blackness of the night.

As they came closer the dark spot revealed itself as trees as hoped, and out of one part of the woods they could see a bright light shining.

“It would be mighty convenient if we found people living there,” Balin muttered suspiciously. 

“People with dry towels and hot tea and plenty of sweet seed-cakes to snack on,” Bilbo said dreamily.

“And lamb chops, fresh bread and maybe even strawberries and sugar peas, they could be in season already”, Bombur said and licked his lips.

Thorin shook his head. “No Men live this far east and elves would never be as careless as to be seen. It might be travellers on the road like us, but we have to be careful,” he said.

“Don't forget the warning the farmer gave me,” Nori reminded, “there might be more to the story than a hungry pack of wolves. The ponies seem nervous to me.” 

Thorin squinted into the darkness, then decided that a protected place to sleep was worth the risk. Cold would soon become a serious problem especially for the smaller members of the company who couldn't hold heat as well. “I have use for your burgling skills now,” he told Bilbo. “You are the quickest and the sneakiest of us, don't think I didn't hear you complain about the racket we make.” 

Bilbo blushed. It was true that she had more than once wondered aloud how they didn't attract more attention with all the stomping, shouting and clanking of the dwarves, but she hadn't though anyone had paid attention, least of all Thorin.

“I want you to take a closer look and report back if it's safe. We will wait here underneath the first trees. If you get into trouble, yell.”

Before she could even think to protest against having to traipse off alone into the darkness Dwalin took Myrtle's reigns and, with a gentle shove in the right direction by Thorin, she was on her way. It was true that hobbits were very light on their feet and she was a prime example of her race. The tough soles of her feet easily found footing even on rain slick tree roots, leaves and on slippery mud. The trees creaked ominously in the wind and she flinched at every creak and hoot of an owl. But soon enough she reached an outcrop of rock and in the midst of it burned the fire they had seen from afar. It was an enormous fire, the heat warmed her even from the distance she was standing and around it sat three equally enormous figures. 

Trolls, there was no doubt about it. 

She had only ever seen them in the pages of her books before and they weren't nearly as tall nor frightening in illustrations, but the face of a troll was rather unmistakable.

They had quite a cosy camp set up. The outcrop was situated in a natural clearing, the trees gradually lightening where fertile earth gave way to solid stone. A huge overhang protected both trolls and the fire from the rain. The rockface continued on at an angle on each side of the overhang and gave protection against the wind. Three huge boulders forming a half-circle offered even more protection from the front. They looked like they had been deliberately placed there, though if it was by the trolls, someone else or even force of nature she couldn't say. It was behind one such boulder that she was currently hiding and peeking out to evaluate the situation. They were drinking from barrels like ordinary-sized folks would from mugs and there were three whole sheep roasting on spits over the flames. The heat of the fire hit her face and hand even from the distance and it was this promise of warmth that made her less careful than she ought to have been.

“Mutton, mutton, mutton,” the smallest of them growled. His voice sounded like a rocks grating on each other. “All we got to eat is mutton. Menflesh, that's what I want.”

“Shut yer gob,” the tallest of the three replied.

“You shut yer own,” the third shouted. “It was yer bright idea to leave the mountain. No more stringy orcs, ye said. Sweet men and elves, ye said. I 'aven't eaten more'n mutton for weeks. Now is summer. Nasty summer. Too short nights to travel and find shelter afore the sun comes up. No more menflesh. Orcs at least don't have much hair. Rip off their heads and you are good. Stupid mutton hair gets stuck in my teeth.”

“You're stupid,” the tallest yelled back. “Orcs blocked our cave more'n once when we was out. Wanted ta get rid of us, they did. You want ta end up in the sun? Go on then, see how far ye get when yer legs start hardnin' 'n how much ye can eat when yer stupid belly is a rock.”

Middle launched himself at Tall with a snarl and soon they were rolling on the floor wrestling and at each other's throats while Small, whose complaining had started the argument in the first place, kept a careful distance. Bilbo watched wide-eyed from behind the bolder and wondered if the two trolls were going to kill each other right here on the spot. It would be very convenient for the company, that was for sure. The longer the fight lasted the more nervous she got. Tall was stronger but Middle was vicious and neither got the upper hand.

“Hey, wot 'ave we got 'ere?” Small suddenly said and before she could take a look at what he meant she was dangling upside down in the air from a painfully hard grip on her leg. She screamed in fright. “Stop yer scuffling fellas, look wot I found,” Small said. He held her up high like a trophy. Blood rushed to her head and the swinging motion was making her sick.

“Wot's that?” middle said and peered curiously at her. “Looks like a tasty bite ta me.”

“Well?” Tall asked. “Speak up if ye can. Wot are ye then?”

“I'm a hobbit,” she squeaked. “Could you please let me down? I can hardly breathe hanging like this.”

“A 'obbit? Never 'eard of a 'obbit before,” Tall rumbled. “But it smells sweet like an elf. Bound to be just as good eatin'.”

“But look at how small it is. Split by three it won't make more than a bite.” Middle whined. “But at least it's got meat on its bones.” He poked her belly hard with his finger as large as a fist. She would be blue and green come morning. If she lived that long. 

“Please,” Bilbo gasped, “please let me down.”

“Set it on the rock next to the fire,” Tall ordered. “It won't get down on its own and we can take a closer look.”

Small did as he was told and soon Bilbo found herself sitting on a rock, too high up to look down without getting dizzy and face to face with the trolls. Selfishly she wished with all her heart that Thorin and the others would get suspicious of her long absence soon.

“Look at 'ow tiny the 'obbit is,” Small crooned and peered closely at her. “If we don't eat it I want ta keep it in a cage and look at it when days gets boring.”

“I vote we eat it,” Middle said “I bet there are more of the little blighters around and that will make a good meal. Are there more of ye 'obbit?”

Bilbo violently shock her head. “No,” she croaked, “I am alone, completely alone.”

Tall sniffed suspiciously. “Don't believe him fellas,” he said. “Helpless things always travel in bunches, jus' like sheep or bunnies. The others can't be far. This 'ere 'obbit is only a look-out, ye'll see.” 

Bilbo silently cursed that Tall was more intelligent than he appeared on first glance.

“Take the rope there and let's hide in the trees. Let's see if we can't catch us some more,” Tall ordered and they lumbered off into the forest. Bilbo clambered as close to the edge of the boulder as she dared and intently peered into the darkness. If only she could give them some warning.

Some tense minutes later Balin and Dwalin crept out of the forest. They likely considered themselves to be sneaky but their boots broke sticks with almost every step and on their clothes and belts bits and pieces of metal clanked. Bilbo could hear them before she even saw Balin's white beard shine like a beacon in the darkness.

“Watch out!” she called as loud as she could, but it was already too late. Balin was still looking at her when the trolls came up behind them from the darkness. They had both dwarves trussed up like smoked hams frighteningly fast for beings of their size.

“Lookie 'ere,” Tall said. “Any more of ye then?”

Balin and Dwalin stayed stubbornly silent no matter how much the trolls shook them around. Finally the three gave up and carelessly tossed them to the ground. Bilbo squeaked in fright as Dwalin almost landed in the fire and only luck saved him from a horrible injuries.

“No matter, we'll wait a bit longer then.” Middle said and the trolls settled comfortably around the fire, back to the rock and eyes towards the trees Balin and Dwalin had come out from. While they waited the rain that had plagued them so these last few days finally stopped and the wind slowed down to a mild breeze. When she looked up Bilbo could make out the first stars peeking through the lightening cloud cover. 

Less than an hour later she could hear rustling and whispering in the forest and the trolls, who had much larger ears than she, could hear it too.

“Come out then yer lot,” Tall called into the darkness. The noise abruptly stopped and all was silent.

“Come out!” Tall called again. “Come out or I'll squash yer friends like worms.” He wrapped his hand around her waist and squeezed until her ribs creaked and she cried out in pain. For a few moments nothing happened. She almost, almost hoped that the others had turned around and fled instead of getting trapped in this horrible situation as well. But then, one by one the dwarves filed out of the forest, first of all Thorin who looked at her with intent and reassuring eyes. She was so glad to see him she had to blink tears out of her eyes. It felt like forever since they had parted on the forest's edge when in reality it was no more than two hours. What a horrible night this turned out to be. 

Bilbo knew she had to think quickly now. If only she could buy time until dawn then they had a chance. The trolls had talked about avoiding sunlight and stories people told in the Shire, about strangely shaped rocks actually being petrified giants suddenly became wishfully real.

Middle and Small fetched more ropes while Tall kept a threatening hand around her torso. In short order all dwarves were caught and bound, though they all were vocal in their protests. 

“Dwarves,” Middle muttered in disgust, looking them over “all of 'em dwarves and not a single other 'obbit more amongst the lot. I hate dwarves. Let's cook 'em quick like, they stink like wet hair when they are raw.”

Middle picked up Bombur by the braid of his beard, ignoring his angry shouts and squeals of pain.

“No,” Bilbo shouted quickly, “they aren't dwarves, they are hobbits, hobbits like me!”

“Hey!” Bofur protested heatedly, “ We ain't hobbits, we are dwar...oompf.” Bifur, bless his taciturn but clever self, silenced his cousin with a well placed kick to the stomach. “Hobbits,” Bofur wheezed, “just a friendly group of hobbits traipsing through the wilderness.”

Tall turned to her. “Liar,” he said. “They look like dwarves and nothin' like yerself.”

“That's because we are a band of plague victims. We were exiled to the wilderness so we wouldn't infect anyone else,” Bilbo said and hoped that the tremble in her voice would be chalked up to nervousness and not insincerity. She was a lousy liar but she could spin a good tale and that was almost as good. If she thought of it as just a good story around the camp fire it would come to her easier.

Tall baulked and Middle quickly dropped Bombur back amongst the others.

“What do ye mean by that,” Tall asked doubtfully. “Ye don't look sick to me. If yer lying to me I will crush you.”

Bilbo gasped. “Never!” she said. “It's the hair man, don't you see the hair?”

“Don't be stupid,” Tall snarled. “O' course I see the hair. Dwarves have far too much of it.”

“But hobbits don't,” Bilbo said, hoping that her coy act would fuel their curiosity rather than test their patience.

“He's right,” Small said. “Look at 'is face. Smooth like river stones.” He squeezed her face between thumb and forefinger and twisted it this way and that way to get a good look. Her eyes watered from the pressure. It was clear that none of the trolls ever had to learn how to control their strength. With a bit more force she was sure any of them could crush her head like a ripe grape. 

“The hair is a hobbit disease,” she gasped and was relieved when Small let go of her immediately.

“Wot ye mean a ' _obbit disease_?” Middle growled 

“Wot's it matter?” Tall replied before she could. “He's lying anyway. Let's eat the lot now and be done with it.”

“I say he's tellin' the truth,” Middle argued and clenched his fist.

“I say he's not,” Tall snarled and punched Middle in the nose hard enough to make him howl. This fight was even more brutal than the first she had witnessed and more than once she held her breath in fright because one or the other almost trampled a dwarf. Thankfully her friends had some give in the ropes and were able to roll out of the way. It ended up with all dwarves tightly pressed against the rock-face behind the fire to avoid the brawling trolls. She could sense that there was more to the tension between Tall and Middle than simply differing opinions. Tall was obviously the leader but she thought that Middle had inklings to change that. Small, she though, would likely stay out of it until the new lines were drawn and then throw in his lot with the winner. If she could only take advantage of that and keep them fighting for a few hours longer. She looked at the night sky and tried to judge how much time had passed. This time of year dawn came very early and it had to be after midnight already, but more than that she couldn't say. The new moon didn't help any either. 10

“'ey,” Small bellowed. “Stop yer squabbling, brothers. Yer wastin' night-time. Let's 'ear out what the 'obbit 'as to say. We can still eat em afters.”

Bilbo stifled a groan. That's just what she needed, a trollish voice of reason. To her despair Tall and Middle actually listened to Small and soon they stood around her boulder again looking at her expectantly. Maybe she had misjudged the dynamics of the group and instead of merely a follower Small was actually the power behind the throne. That would be just her luck.

“Well?” Tall asked.

“Well, well, you see,” Bilbo stammered, her mind racing against the panic for something to say. “We hobbits call it the beard-fever! First you get a fever, then you feel fine but then suddenly –“ she paused dramatically, “hair begins to grow everywhere. Within a few weeks most victims are covered head to toe. Then it starts to grow on the inside. On your teeth, your tongue and finally your throat until you choke on it and die.” She shook her head sadly. “It's the most terrible thing imaginable.”

“Oooo oo.” Middle shuddered. “Sounds 'orriffic,” he whispered with wide eyes.

Bilbo was getting into the spirit of things. “Oh it is!” she wailed, wiping tears of sorrow from her cheeks. “Half my village died of it already! The fellows over there,” here she pointed at the dwarves, “have only a few more days to live at most. Their belly is already filled with hair to the brim, they haven't eaten in days. It's only a matter of time until they choke on it. I only contracted the fever recently, but look, the growth is already starting.” She stuck out her feet and wiggled her hairy toes.”

“Oh, may the mountain protect us,” Middle whimpered. “'ow do you get it? Do we already 'ave it?”

Bilbo nervously chewed on her lower lip. “It's usually transmitted when you touch the hair of an infected person.” She said.

Middle howled and stamped his feet hard enough to make the ground shake. “I touched the round one's beard,” he screamed and frantically wiped his hand on his leather apron. “I touched 'im, I touched 'im. I'm gonna die.”

“Fool,” Tall roared and Middle was surprised enough to stop his wailing. “He's tryin' to get the better of us. Didn't ya 'ear what that one said before? They ain't 'obbits, they are dwarves clear as night. The little blighter is lyin' and I will knock the teeth out o' that lyin' mouth.” He threateningly raised his fist and just as she thought he would crush her with it Small said, “I think he's tellin' the truth. Ye'r a moron for not believing him. Yer not fit to be leader.”

Small's eyes widened and he seemed very surprised at his words. So was Bilbo and her mouth dropped in astonishment, not because of Small's gumption but because the troll's mouth hadn't moved while saying any of it. Tall screamed in outrage and tackled Small to the ground. He wrapped his hands around his throat and Small's face slowly turned dark grey from lack of air. Frantically he scrambled to dislodge Tall. Then Middle decided to take advantage of Tall's distraction and jumped on his back with all the force of his weight behind him.

Bilbo crawled to the edge of the boulder she was still trapped on and frantically looked around to see who had given the very well-timed distraction. In the east, behind the tallest boulder in the clearing she caught a glimpse of a grey cloak vanishing behind the rock. She sagged in relief and exhaustion. It was Gandalf. Hopefully he knew what he was doing.

On the ground the trolls were still fighting in earnest, but high above on the trees birds were beginning to sing and it was the sweetest most welcome sound she had ever heard in her life. If the dawn chorus was starting then it was less than an hour before sun-rise. The night was almost over. It was hard to tell, surrounded by rock as she was but she thought that part of the sky was already lighter than it had been before.

Unfortunately the coming day didn't go unnoticed by the trolls. As the tips of the trees began to brighten in the oncoming sun they quickly scrambled apart, their fight for dominance forgotten for now. They were all worse for wear scratched, bleeding and Small was even missing half an ear, but they were quick to work together when it came to their survival.

“Get as many dwarves as ye can,” Tall ordered. “We will stash them in the cave for the day and roast them first thing in the night. No more dawdlin' now. Hurry.” Tall reached for her and she futilely tried to think of a way to avoid him. Behind her she could hear the dwarves yell and shout at the trolls. Thorin was calling her name in alarm.

“Dawn take you all, and be stone to you,” Gandalf shouted and the tall rock blocking the light from the east gave a crack as loud as thunder and broke clear in two. The first warm rays of the rising sun flooded the clearing. Tall gave one last groan and turned to stone, one hand still reaching out for her.

“Well, that was just in the nick of time,” Gandalf commented calmly and stepped through the crack in the rock as if he was just returning from a leisurely early morning stroll. “You really should watch your steps a bit better.” Bilbo had to suppress a hysterical giggle at the absurdity of it all.

Gandalf unsheathed Glóin's knife from its scabbard and began the task of cutting the ropes. The dwarves groaned as they stood up and shook the pins and needles out of their limbs. Dwalin and Ori were rubbing painful looking rope burns on their arms. In daylight her boulder seemed even taller and she was getting dizzy again. She closed her eyes. “Could someone please help me down,” she called and it sounded pitiful even to her own ears.

“Don't worry, we've got you,” Dwalin called and they gathered around the rock. “Just jump and we will catch you.”

She glared down at them. Were they insane? She couldn't just _jump_.

Thorin caught her eyes. “Trust us Bilbo,” he said. “We won't let you fall, I promise.”

Trust? Well, yes, she did. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and let go. The fall was over before she had time to be afraid and strong arms softened her impact. She let out a relieved sigh and opened her eyes. Thorin didn't let go of her immediately and she was glad because the worry and panic that had kept her steady all night was slowly leaving her making place for well deserved exhaustion. With a noise half laugh and half sob she let her head slump forward and come to rest against his shoulder. “That went quite well I think,” she said and startled a bark of laughter from Thorin.

“Yes,” he said, “Next time just avoid getting caught, burglar. You did good distracting them as you did. It saved our lives.”

“I'm sorry my big mouth almost ruined it,” Bofur said contritely with his face drooping in a woebegone expression.

“It was indeed a good thing that I happened on things when I did. Our dear Bilberry here was handling the situation marvellously, but a little help didn't go amiss after all,” Gandalf cheerfully said as he lit his morning pipe and took a good lung full.

“Where have you been anyway, old man,” Thorin asked darkly.

Gandalf vaguely waved into an easterly direction. “Looking ahead,” he said, “and then looking back, before you ask.”

Thorin scowled but didn't comment.

“But now we must take a look at the cave these trolls must have maintained to hide from the sun. Troll's are ever jealous of those that can walk outside during daylight and they covet things that remind them of the sun they can never see except from shadows. That's no doubt the reason one of them wanted to keep Bilbo here in a cage for looking at.” Bilbo looked at Gandalf sharply as he – maybe unintentionally, maybe not – revealed that he had come upon the scene far earlier than just in the nick of time. As the dwarves hadn't been present for that particular conversation however, she was the only one to catch on.

Gandalf continued on as if he hadn't noticed her look. “Their caves are often full of plunder and there might be something useful for us to find.” The dwarves were much cheered up at the thought of riches and she decided to let Gandalf's revelation go. Wizards would be wizards and there was little use in questioning them.

They found the cave in short order on the northern side of the outcrop where the shadows last the longest. Dori, as the strongest of the group, led the others into rolling aside the heavy rock blocking the entrance. Inside a horrible stench permeated the air and bones littered the ground, not all of them old and not all of them from animals. A sad testament that they hadn't been the first travellers waylaid by the trolls. They also found a small heap of gold, some jewels and many weapons haphazardly thrown into a pile. None of them had been of use against the trolls for the unfortunate previous owners. Two swords however caught their eye in particular because of their beautiful scabbards and jewelled hilts. They were clearly elven-made but dwarves could appreciate good craftsmanship from every race.

“Hnnn,” Gandalf hummed while carefully inspecting the swords. “These are elvish weapons,” he said.

“You don't say,” Glóin muttered sarcastically under his breath.

Gandalf ignored him. “They are very old and, if I am not mistaken, they have shed blood in some very significant battles indeed. I wonder how the troll got their hands on them.” He held one of the swords out to Thorin hilt first who took it reluctantly. “Like all elvish blades it will glow with a bluish light when orcs are near, I think it will serve you well in the future, O Thorin king.” The other sword he fastened to his own belt.

Bilbo, not interested in gold and jewels as the dwarves were, let her eyes roam over the pile of weapons while they gathered the treasure into an old wooden chest. Almost on top, half hidden inside an opening in the wall she thought she could spot a similar pattern than the one adorning the hilt of Thorin's new sword. She tugged on Gandalf's sleeve and pointed it out to him so that he could get it down for her with his longer reach. 

“Well spotted, Bilbo,” he praised, “it appears to be a dagger from the same set as Thorin's sword. The Elf using it would have foregone a shield and instead fought with the sword in one hand and the dagger in the other, using both for offence and defence as the situation required.”

“A good find then,” Bilbo replied cheerfully and took the dagger out of Gandalf's hand, “especially as an elven dagger is just the right size for a hobbit sword, don't you think so?”

Gandalf laughed and stood up from where he had crouched besides her. “Oh, my dear Bilberry,” he said, “at this moment you remind me very much of your mother indeed.”

With a pleased smile Bilbo fastened the sword to her belt next to where her swing was already hanging and resolved to find a teacher for it amongst the dwarves as soon as possible. At her size being helpless sometimes was unavoidable, even the big people had trouble with that, but that didn't mean it had to happen more often than necessary.

They were all glad to leave the cave and stand in the sunlight again. The dwarves took turns shovelling a deep hole in which they buried the treasure to be retrieved at a later date. She couldn't blame them for their caution, if the quest failed this might be the only thing for them to take back home to their families.

Gandalf wanted to press on as soon as possible but Thorin shook his head. “No wizard,” he said. “We have had an exhausting night and not much sleep the nights before on top of it. My men are exhausted and the ponies don't fare much better. If only one of them stumbles and gets hurt we will lose far more time. We all deserve a day to rest and be domestic on. There is a small stream over yonder and I, for one, want to wash my clothes and my beard.”

The others had listened in unashamedly and were now nodding emphatically. They had been soaked to the skin and rolling around bound in the dirt had covered them in a thick layer of mud and dirt. They looked a fright. Bilbo had fared a bit better but her feet itched from the dirt trapped in her curls.

“I have soap and washing powder for everyone,” she offered before Gandalf could protest and with that it was decided.

Kílí, Fílí and Ori went to get the ponies and out of the packs came the spare clothes, the combs, brushes and ribbons, the soap, the washing powder and more odds and ends. First though they brushed the ponies until their coats shone, scraped the mud and stones out of their hooves and fed them slices of dried apples and the last of their oats so that they might be as pampered as them for the day. Then they walked a few yards to a small stream to wash their clothes and scrub themselves clean. Despite having had their company for weeks now, Bilbo wasn't as dwarvish yet as to bathe in mixed company. Blushing she took care to keep a tree between herself and their naked forms and lingered over her washing to take her own bath after they were done. 

They hung up their clothes on ropes strung between trees and settled under an overhang on the western side of the outcrop. The trolls had never camped there because of the evening sun and here their stench didn't make the ponies nervous. Gandalf volunteered for first watch and was soon out of sight between the rocks on top. No one felt in the mood to get firewood and Glóin straight out refused to sit awake for another hour watching over the fire. Instead they spread their bedrolls out right next to each other and laid down in a big dwarf-pile where their shared body heat was more than enough to keep everyone comfortable even in the shadow and on the cold ground. Bilbo hesitated on the edge of their cosy set-up, painfully aware that she was the only one without a relative to snuggle up with. She was just about to take her bedroll out into the sun instead when Thorin sleepily held out his hand. 

“Don't tarry so, Burglar,” he murmured, almost half asleep already. Bilbo didn't need to be asked twice. Quickly she spread her bedroll besides his and buried herself under his spare cloak so that it covered both of them. She fell asleep peacefully to the sound of birds singing and the smell of leather, wet wool and rock that mingled with that of her own soap.

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8 I will (probably) not clarify further on this. All dwarves will continued to be addressed by male pronouns because I truly do mean it, in my universe the dwarves of both sexes are the same and pretty much indistinguishable. The only time the sex of a person really comes up is for procreation and that's between them and their One. I have some ideas on who in the company could be female but for now I will leave that up for everyone individually. For the purpose of this story, it really and honestly doesn't matter (except if maybe inspiration strikes).

9 I am woefully ignorant about knitting. I learned it in school but I don't have the kind of coordination to manage it gracefully. It's a bit like dancing with your fingers, and I suck at dancing too. Before I researched it for Nori I ignorantly thought that the palette of natural dyes would be rather restricted, especially if you couldn't cultivate plants like e.g. saffron. But no! Leechen, mushrooms, bark, fruits, flowers can give you so many beautiful and bright shades of colour – it's awesome! All shades described in this chapter are possible to achieve with natural dyes, so it's all authentic (with the sole exception that I didn't check if all the plants would feel at home in the same climate.

10 Assuming that Hobbiton, Rivendell etc. are at about the same general latitude as Worcestshire on which Tolkien partly based the Shire, the days during summer are pretty long. This scene takes place on May 27th (6 Forelith S.R.) and the three trolls would have to deal with less than eight hours between sunset and sunrise. Not a lot of time if your life depends on finding shelter from the sun. Quite a long time however if you have to spend it keeping three hungry trolls from eating you. 

Sunrise is at about 5:30 or rather 4:30 local time (no DST in Middle Earth). BUT this of course doesn't take into account that the climate of landlocked Shire would be different from oceanic Great Britain. We probably have to set everything further south and accept a slightly longer night of about half an hour, but I'm playing fast and loose with the weather anyway, so there's that.

For the phases of the moon I'm using the year 2006 as a guide, I think it matches what we know of 2941 TA pretty closely.


	7. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the extremely long delay. I could blame real life but that would be a lie. Time just got away from me. I apologize and will do my best not to let it happen again.
> 
> But here's something! Someone pointed out to me that this story has actual fanart! You may have already seen it because it was drawn months ago, but it was complete news to me! If you haven't seen it, please do go over to Ewelock's tumbler and tell her how brilliant she is. Thank you Ewelock (or Ewebean now), this is one of the best things that ever happened to me :-)  
> http://ewebean.tumblr.com/post/45805877868/intoxicating-by-their-very-nature-apple-blossoms
> 
> And as always, a thousand thanks to my beta reader stickdonkey!

Ukúlgar snarled and hissed at the stabbing beams of sunlight that pierced the protection of their warren. Growling deep in his throat and uselessly snapping his teeth _sinking into soft flesh, tearing out pieces_ at the specks of dust dancing in the light, he nevertheless stepped closer to the hole that served as their exit to the outside world.

There was something in the air.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply through his mouth trying to get every last taste _wet meat sliding down his throat_. It was bitter. Like an old memory. Like revenge. Like a never forgotten enemy.

It tasted delicious _blood coating his tongue_.

Beside him Šuúrr growled and lunged at the exit. Her hackles were raised and her fangs bared into a dangerous grin. Quickly he grabbed her riding harness and roughly pulled her back with all his weight. Before she could lunge again he gouged his claws into the sensitive skin of her nose. She howled in pain _bones crushing loudly under his grip_ and he jumped back. Her teeth snapped close over the space were his leg _sucking out soft, delicious marrow_ had been a mere moment before.

“Not yet,” he snarled and pressed his claws down harder for emphasis before letting go. Her eyes _eyeballs popping under his teeth, spraying salty liquid at the roof of his mouth_ glinted resentfully at him and he could read the hate in her gaze, but for now she submitted though he knew she wouldn't forget this slight. She was the leader of their pack of wargs and too strong and vicious to stay low forever. One day, he knew she would tear off his arm if he was lucky or tear out his throat _blood spraying like a fountain_ if he wasn't. As it had ever been, the alliance between orcs and wargs was a shaky one at best and would only go so far as it was useful for both of them.

But the future wasn't important. Now was what counted and now proved that what they had all been waiting for was happening. All these decades later, the spawn of Durin had crawled out of their caves and returned east again. Surely where one group of Dwarves went, others were soon to follow and they would slaughter them all _slashed torsos and guts spilling to the ground_ like the dwarves had once slaughtered them. He bit down hard on his tongue, enjoying the metallic taste of blood as it coated the inside of his mouth. Tomorrow they would feast on Dwarf-flesh, he would make sure of it.  1

\-------------------

The Misty Mountains rose on the horizon like an impenetrable stronghold of giants, their snowy peaks ever reaching skywards. With the rain and the low hanging clouds these last days, they had been hidden from view, but now as their little group cleared the woods and reached the top of a small hill, the mountain range appeared startlingly close. To Bilbo they were the tallest things she had ever seen in her life and briefly she wondered if one could touch the stars from their highest peak. A smile flickered over her face as the childish thought brought an old memory to mind. As a young and wild faunt her mother had told her the tale of the ancient Mariner who sailed the skies and could be seen from below by the glowing jewel that was set on his brow. 2

In all honesty, her mother should have known better.

Bilbo had immediately set it into her mind to wave the Mariner hello as he passed by and to get a closer look at the glowing jewel that outshone the brightest stars. To her young mind the most reasonably place from which to accomplish such a feat, was from the top of the Old Oak which grew above their hobbit hole on the Hill. At that time this tree had been the tallest thing she had ever seen in her life. Luckily her father had been light of sleep and quick of mind even in the middle of the night, or else no one would have caught her when the inevitable happened and she lost her footing in the dark and tumbled down from a high up branch.

She had gotten away with a scare, scraped elbows and a sprained wrist. Poor Bungo however had cracked at least two ribs from the impact of her body and had to sit still with tight bandages wrapped around his chest and belly for weeks until they healed. The guilt at father's pained groans alone, had kept her escapades more restrained afterwards and from then on the tales mother told her became far less adventurous and much more cautionary and instructive. The experience had also taught her a proper, hobbit-like fear of heights for hobbits usually never feel comfortable off the ground and even avoid sleeping and eating upstairs in their own home. One more glance at the mountains showed her that if any dredges of her childhood bravery remained, she better unearth them soon because she would need it. Despite that it was in their nature, it was doubtful that the dwarves planned to tunnel through the mountains.

“Are you going to stay there all day?” Dori called and with a start she realized that she was still wool-gathering on top of the hill while the others were now staring up at her from the bottom. Ever since recovering from the gruelling incident with the trolls the day before, the companies attitude towards her had changed slightly but noticeably. While before she had been the one to chatter, be interested in their doings and coax stories from them, they had shown little interest in return. Now it seemed she had proven that she would stay by their side even in hardship and they had warmed up to her. They were more aware and more caring now of what she was doing and she felt like she was becoming true part of the company now.

“Coming,” she called and nudged her pony forward. She was riding Pumpkin today as Myrtle had the day off and only carried a few bags of their dwindling supplies. They had a rotation set up in order to give every pony a chance to carry a lighter load every now and then and that no animal had to carry the heavier member of their party two days in a row. Though hobbits generally didn't ride, Shire-ponies were bred to carry heavy loads and mostly worked for farmers, millers, builders, masons and the like. But that was no reason not to treat them with care and Bilbo heartily approved of this measure.

By not quite coincidence Pumpkin fell into step with Periwinkle who carried Thorin on his back today. She was aware that something had changed in her perception of Thorin. Or maybe it simply was that her perception of him had grown. It seemed that she was now constantly aware of his presence. She couldn't quite put her finger on when it had happened but his voice was the one she heard most clearly and his face was the one she looked for first when watching the others.

The farmer had called her Thorin's wife and despite her initial shock, she found that she didn't mind as much as she would have expected. After Emmerich, all her memories of their marriage, especially the happy ones, had been spoiled by his betrayal and her failure. There was no joy to her in the thought of being someone's wife. And yet...And yet, when she looked at Thorin the delight of hope and possibilities stirred in her heart.

She sighed gustily. Was it fair to even have such thoughts? She did not think she was alone in them. When Thorin looked at her there was a weight and consideration in his gaze that didn't exist when he looked at anyone else. She wasn't imagining the fondness in his words to her either. And the way he had held her during their rest in the Troll-clearing, there had been more to it than the tenderness one showed to a friend, she was sure of it. But she remembered Gandalf's warning. Her customs were not Thorin's customs. Her barrenness wouldn't be a deterrent, but dwarves loved only once and married only those they loved. He wouldn't understand her situation with Emmerich, likely he would even be horrified by it.

She shook her head. Maybe she was going about this the wrong way. There were things that couldn't be changed. Emmerich was one of them. The budding emotions between Thorin and her were another. One couldn't simply stop feeling and fools were them who tried. If something came to be between her and Thorin, but he couldn't accept her past, then she would find out soon enough. There was always enough time to nurse a broken heart and live with grief and disappointment. There was no need to provoke it any earlier than necessary. And maybe it would never get that far in the first place. While getting to know each other they could well discover that they didn't fit as well after all and disappointment would temper the first stirrings of love into friendship instead. She would confess it all, the first time they had a serious talk about courtship and love, she resolved. Serious talks weren't taken up lightly and usually meant that both parties were sure about what they felt and how they wanted to proceed. To keep her past from Thorin beyond that point would be a betrayal and that would do both of them a disservice.

But in the meantime she was still a hobbit and hobbits by their very nature, enjoyed the simple pleasures of life to the fullest. Simple pleasures, like looking at a beloved's face and finding joy in the mere fact that they were near. Or taking his hand. Feeling warm skin and a tight but comfortable grip; running sensitive finger tips along the edge of the other's fingernails. She looked at Thorin's strong, calloused hands resting on Periwinkle's neck and was tempted to reach over then and there just to see the look on his face. But no, she wasn't quite daring enough yet and the anticipation brought its own pleasure. One day she might even stand before him and study his face with all the time and leisure in the world to count the darker flecks in his light blue eyes, trace the worry-lines around his eyes and mouth and smooth down the stray hairs in his beard and moustache. She glanced at him out of the corners of her eyes. He would have to be sitting down for all of these things, she judged. Dwarves were taller and broader than hobbits and even with her on tiptoes they wouldn't be seeing eye to eye. Or maybe he could simply lift her up. The impressive girth of his arms probably meant he was strong enough for the task. She almost giggled like a silly young girl as her thoughts flew away with her. He really was awfully tall.

“What is on your mind, Bilbo?” Thorin suddenly asked, abruptly bringing her out of her thoughts.

“Thinking of height,” she blurted out then felt herself blush to the tips of her ears when she realized what she had said . “Or rather, thinking of the mountains.” she diverted. “They are very impressive. Very intimidating. Very _tall_. Did you know that the hobbits once crossed these mountains before they settled in the west? Now that I have seen them it seems even more unbelievable to me.”

Thorin looked at her suspiciously but thankfully let it go. “I am sadly not as well versed in hobbit history as I ought to be,” he said amusedly.

Bilbo smiled at his attempt at humour. “Of course you aren't,” she said. “Honestly, these days most _hobbits_ don't know much about their own history. I doubt most know that they have ever lived anywhere else but Breeland and the Shire. Or if they do, they will do their best to deny it.”

“But _you_ know about it?” Thorin asked.

Bilbo nodded.

Thorin hesitated. “Amongst the dwarves usually only the nobles and the scholars are educated in history and lore beyond the stories that are told around the hearth fire. It appears to me that you are neither, yet you are educated above the level of your peers?” Though phrased like a statement he let the sentence trail out on a questioning note.

Bilbo did not think before she answered. “I read a lot. Most days I think my books are the only friends I have left in this world.” She clamped her mouth shut as soon as the words had left it and wished that she hadn't said anything at all. She could feel Thorin's heavy, assessing gaze on her and didn't dare look up to meet his eyes. He would ask. She was sure of it. He would ask and she would have to tell. But it was too soon and afterwards she would sink so low in his esteem that she may never have a chance to gain his respect again. Her simple pleasures would be over before they had properly begun. A hand on her elbow startled her.

“Don't fret,” Thorin rumbled. “You may keep your secrets as long as I can trust that they will not harm us. A forced confidence is worth nothing to me.”

He probably didn't know it, but in this moment he was so dear to her she could hardly breathe.

“Thank you,” she choked out, “and please trust that I would never hurt you and yours.”

He accepted her pledge with a nod and was kind enough to give her a few seconds to compose herself. “Tell me about this hobbit-excursion then.”

Bilbo choked again, this time with barely suppressed laughter. “You make it sound like a group of faunts going off to visit farmer Maggot's new-born calves It was more than a simple excursion, I can tell you that, though it was a long time ago. There aren't any written records that old in the Shire, but some tales live on all the same.” Bilbo smiled sheepishly, “I have no idea if any of it is true in any case or just a fanciful story, but hobbits dislike adventures so much, I doubt it would be commonly told if there wasn't a bit of truth to it.”

Thorin cocked his head in what Bilbo interpreted as curiosity. She was glad that he didn't appear to be bored. “Go on,” he said in his typically straight forward manner.

“A long time ago, when we hobbits were still divided into three clans, we lived over the Misty Mountains in the valley of a great river.”

“Not _a_ great river I would say,” Thorin interrupted her, “rather it was _the_ Great River or the Anduin as it is also called.”

Bilbo shrugged. “As you say,” she said. “My maps aren't labelled that far east. In any case, in the south of the valley lived the Stoors, they were skilled fishermen and their lives were greatly influenced by the river. North of them lived the Harfoots, they were the most fruitful of all three clans in crops and children alike. Farthest in the north lived the Fallowhides, they were fewest in numbers and very skilled hunters. Then something disturbed their peace and the clans braved the mountains to move west.”

“What do you mean _something_?” Balin, who had been eavesdropping unashamedly, questioned incredulously.

“Yeah,” Bofur chimed in, “You can't mine diamonds by hammering around the rock. Tell us all about it!”

Bilbo lifted her hands apologetically, “Truthfully, I do not know. The tale doesn't say and I am not sure the hobbits of that time knew in any case. But it must have been something terribly uncomfortable. Hobbits don't leave their home voluntarily and they wouldn't have wandered into the unknown, leaving their homes and gardens behind, unless forced. It would have been far too adventurous.” The others had given up any pretence that they weren't listening in and were eagerly crowded around both her and Thorin. “The Harfoots were the first to leave. They used the pass nearest to here and probably took the same route we are taking right now. The Fallowhides followed not long after and joined the Harfoots in the area near Weathertop, though they crossed the mountains farther in the north. It was on the Fallowhides urging that all hobbits moved further west to Breeland. The Stoors, ever a bit peculiar and very stubborn, held out the longest and crossed the Mountains later, at a different pass further south.” 3

“Redhorn pass, near Khazad-dûm,” Balin injected knowledgeably. “I wonder if they were friendly with our folk that lived there at that time.”

Bilbo shrugged, “If they were then they didn't talk about it. But they are the only hobbits to grow beards and they even wore boots. They would have fit right in with you lot. They settled in Dunland and to this day many families use stoorish words that the Stoors learned from the Men that lived there. It wasn't until much later that most of them joined the other clans and mingled with them. It is said that some of them even went back over the mountains, unwilling to let their old home go.”

“How long ago did you say this was?” Dwalin asked.

“About two-thousand years I would say, maybe a few centuries less. According to Shire reckoning the year is 1341, that's how long we hobbits have lived in the Shire. But the land wasn't settled by our kind until a few centuries after the crossing. That's why there are so many hobbits still living in Bree and the surrounding farmland to this day. This is where the hobbits first sought shelter and protection near settlements of Men. The Bree-hobbits think us Shire-hobbits terribly backward and peculiar I'm afraid, because to them we moved away from civilisation into unclaimed wilderness.”

Dwalin grimaced. “I think I can guess what your _something_ was,” he said and frowned.

“The Necromancer,” Balin said, his voice far too loud for the grimness of his tone. A hush fell over the others.

Bilbo shuddered at the sudden chills travelling down her spine. “What..?” she asked.

“The Necromancer. Not much is known about him, but what is known isn't good.” Dwalin said. “He is a dark sorcerer, very powerful and immortal if the rumours are to be believed. He settled in northern Mirkwood, then still called Greenwood, about seventeen centuries ago. When he did a shadow fell over the forest and the surrounding lands. Fell creatures returned to the mountains in great numbers and suffering befell all who lived near.”

Dwalin fell into a brooding silence and appeared disinclined to say more. After a long pause Balin started to talk. “We have records of that time from when our people lived in the Misty Mountains. We dwarves were one of few that remained in the area as the impenetrable gates of Khazad-dûm offered us protection. But life became hard for our ancestors because we dwarves rely on trade for food and that became more difficult with time. Caravans had to go farther afield and heavily armed at that, to defend against attacks.”

“The Necromance has been a dark menace in the east for far too long, though his agenda is still unknown,” Thorin offered and shot Gandalf a dark look which Bilbo didn't understand. “His influence has done much harm to many and his presence is the main reason we are passing the Mountains this far north. We want to avoid his gaze in the south. It has already brought ruin to another company under the command of my father trying to reclaim Erebor.”

“I am very sorry,” Bilbo said and her heart ached for him.

“Thank you,” Thorin said.

“Are there still dwarven colonies in the Misty Mountains left?” As soon as she asked her question she knew from Thorin's expression that she had hit on a sore spot. Again. It seemed the Dwarves were full of sore spots, or maybe she just had a special talent for only hitting were it hurt.

“Not any longer,” Thorin very curtly said and turned away.

Balin grimaced and shot her a sympathetic look. “There are many horrible things in these world Bilbo,” he said kindly. “We dwarves have met more than our fair share of them and the Misty Mountains especially have given us our greatest treasures but also our biggest losses.” He sighed, “I will tell you about it at some later time. It isn't a tale that should be told on the road. It deserves songs and ale at the very least.”

“Songs and ale indeed,” said Gandalf from behind them. As usual he had given no indication of listening to their conversation and yet had likely heard it all. “As it happens, I know of a place nearby where our company could get both and plenty of it. What say you, Thorin?”

“I say that the only beings left living in these parts are the elves, though I don't know where they have hidden their dwellings. You know what we dwarves think of the elves. You know what the elves think of us dwarves. Are you trying to waylay me into elvish territory?” Thorin asked and glared suspiciously, the sombre mood of earlier laid aside for now.

“Nothing of the sort, Thorin. I promise you a warm welcome in the last homely house west of the mountains. Lord Elrond is nothing but hospitable to all his visitors. But even so, you can't deny that we need the supplies the elves can give us. The way is long to Erebor and friendly stops will be few and far in between. Then there is the matter of the map. I did not tell you before but I think...”, he trailed off when it became clear that Thorin wasn't listening but instead intently staring into the distance.

Gandalf too urged his horse forward and narrowed his eyes shading them against the sun. Bilbo wasn't tall enough to see much of distinction but her hearing was keen enough. As the seconds passed she could make out an eerie howl that reminded her of wolves, but even the cries of starving wolves paled in comparison to this violent and hungry sound.

“Wolves?” she still asked hopefully though a small part of her was near hysterics at the thought that wolves appeared to be the best option in this situation.

Balin grimly shook his head.

“Fly you fools,” Gandalf shouted from the front and urged on his horse, taking the lead of their group while the ponies did their best to keep up.

When before they had more or less followed the route of the old road in a straight line eastwards, Gandalf was now veering to the left at a sharp angle. Bilbo hoped that he had an actual goal in mind and wasn't just fleeing from the danger coming from the right. From the shouts of the others she learned that the howls were wargs and their riders could only be an orc raiding party.

The longer they rode the clearer it became that whatever destination Gandalf had in mind, they wouldn't reach it in time. The wargs were fast and already some orcish battle-cries were sounding far too close. When she glanced downwards where sling and scabbard were hanging from her belt she could see her dagger glow faintly blue in the sunlight. She had no idea what range this elven sorcery had, but Gandalf had said it would glow when orcs were near, and _near_ was by definition too close for comfort.

The ponies were bred for endurance not speed and while they did their best, driven by fear and panic as they were, they were already sweat soaked and their nostriles flared. Their sides were heaving and they were beginning to slow. On young and reckless Pumpkin she was near the front of the herd but some, like Bluebell and Thistle with Dwalin and Bombur on their backs, were already falling behind. Thorin seemed to realize this too. With a few sharp shouts and exaggerated gestures he steered them away from Gandalf's lead and towards a boulder the size of a small castle. The entire area was riddled with similar rocks standing in stark contrast with the soft, grassy plain. It looked as if the children of giants had carelessly upturned their chest of toys and strewn the contents across the landscape. The one Thorin was steering them towards was by far the largest in reach. It would give them a more easily defensible position and hopefully protect their backs while their weapons and skills defended their front.

They dismounted and on Thorin's barked orders slipped the bridles off the ponies' heads and sent them running in Gandalf's general direction with sharp slaps on their rumps. It would be too dangerous for them to stay and in a panic they would be a danger to themselves and the company. While the ponies were used to following each other's behinds, it was too much to ask from the fear struck animals that they would all stay together, but likely they would at least scatter in small groups of two or three. They carried their packs and supplies with them but with some luck and hope they could be caught up with later. 4

If there was a later.

Bilberry swallowed hard and clenched her sling tightly in one sweat soaked palm. She fumbled with the strings on the small bag hanging from her belt and opened it wide for easy access. She had practised throwing rocks almost every day of the journey and the many rivers they had passed on the way had brought her a nice collection of smooth, perfectly sized stones which she always kept close.

Briefly she fingered the hilt of the elfish dagger that also hung from her belt but dismissed the thought almost immediately. She had held it only a couple of times since it had come into her possession and the weight of it still felt foreign and clumsy her hand. She would likely do more harm than good with it and would only use it in dire straits when no other options were open to her.

This caused a problem however. The dwarves were standing shoulder to shoulder in a half circle with the rock-face at their backs. They were used to fighting and moving in tight places and ready to use this to their advantage. She was currently standing behind them and would be fairly protected behind their line. Her sling however was a medium to long-range weapon, it wouldn't do her a lick of good stuck behind a row of dwarves. Not to mention, if that line was broken she would be stuck like a chicken in the pen with the butcher. She didn't like that thought at all. Before she had time to fret about it a hand grabbed her elbow and dragged her towards the edge of the boulder. She recognized Kílí before the shriek could escape her throat.

“Excuse me!” She said.

“No time for politeness Miss Bilberry,” Kílí replied, though the clatter of metal against metal and shouts of rage behind them quite made the point for him. The fight had started and she was running out of time. “What are you still doing down here?” he asked. “Don't you have the good sense to scramble up where your weapon can actually be of use? Ori has been up there for ages and so would have I if I didn't have to come down here again to get you.” He gave her one last shove forward before shouldering his bow and climbing as fast as a squirrel up the rock which, at closer inspection wasn't as sheer nor as steep as she had believed. Craning her neck she saw that it was riddled with ledges and natural formed shelves and alcoves, some of which were large enough to support a person. She could see a piece of Ori's scarf peeking from a spot at least twenty feet above the ground.

Good sense indeed! She had the good sense of hobbits not to die by falling from great heights, thank you very much. On the other hand, a quick glance backward where a snarling wave of orcs and wargs broke against the stalwart wall of dwarves showed her that she _should_ have the good sense not to be killed in battle and protect her comrades the best she knew how. What had hobbit good sense ever done for her? Far less than the company had for sure, even in the short time that she had known them.

“Think of the trees you used to climb, think of how brave you used to be” she whispered to herself and took a deep breath. But no, that wasn't quite right, was it? As a child she hadn't been brave, she had been fearless because she hadn't understood that bad things could and did happen to anyone. After falling, after father had gotten hurt because of her recklessness, she had learned fear and caution and also cowardice. Now it was finally time to learn bravery.

She began to climb.

It astounded her how easy it still was, as if her body had only waited for her to start reaching for the stars again. Her arms ached and the rock bit into the soft skin of her palms, but her feet easily found leverage in small nooks in the rock and soon she drew herself up on a generous ledge about fifteen feet above the ground. Dizzily she leaned against the rock as far from the edge as possible and looked down. The battle was brutal. The orcs were vicious creatures, foul looking and rotten to the core. They showed no mercy in their attack and were relentlessly throwing themselves at the stalwart dwarves with no thought of injury nor losses. The bodies of dead orcs and wargs were piling up and were being trampled or tossed aside by the horde, intent on letting nothing stand in the way of their attack. The dwarves were valiant, battle tried and determined on protecting each other. Even as she watched Dwalin's staff caught a blow meant for Thorin. But even in her inexperience she could see that they were fighting a losing battle. They were only eleven on the ground defending against forty orcs and their wargs, maybe more. If they didn't get help their quest would be over before it had truly begun. Determinedly she loaded her sling and stepped forward until she felt the edge of the ledge at the tip of her toes. She steadied herself with her left hand against the rock. Just because it seemed hopeless didn't mean that one should stop trying.

Her first shot fell short and the stone harmlessly bounced off the ground and was swallowed by grass. Her second shot however hit true. The warg wasn't mortally wounded but it fell and its rider was thrown off smacking hard against a rock and sliding to the ground. The orc didn't get up again.

Everything became a blur after that. She let loose projectile after projectile and continued swinging her sling long after her shoulder and arm were screaming in pain and her shirt was soaked with sweat. It was very difficult to hit moving targets and many of her shots struck nothing more than the ground, but her aim grew better with every shot and she was doing some damage to the enemy forces. When she took small breaks to loosen up her cramping arm or because no feasible target was within range she checked on the progress of the others in the company and was relieved to see everyone on the ground still standing, though visibly growing exhausted. Ori was situated somewhere directly above her and out of sight but Kílí was lying flat on his belly on a ledge only a small distance to her right and slightly below. Occasionally she glanced in his direction to check his progress, though he never looked back. His arrows where a limited commodity and he was focussed completely on the battlefield below, intent on lining up each shot perfectly and not let even a single arrow go to waste.

The orcs were more careful now. The first mindless rage of their attack had passed and they were more cautious but also more clever. In the beginning many orcs had fallen simply by being shoved into dwarven steel by the eager masses behind them. In contrast they now stayed out of range and waited for a weak spot in the defence to attack. It gave the dwarves on the ground more opportunity to catch their breath but to her eyes the resulting fights were also more challenging. With a gasp she forced herself to watch as Thorin almost lost his arm to a wicked looking blade, only managing to bring up his sword at the last minute to deflect the blow. Maybe this was actually a strategy of the orcs. If they were not worried about sacrificing parts of their forces, and she didn't think they were, then the frenzied attack in the beginning could well be a plan to tire the enemy out and then attack with more finesse after exhaustion made mistakes more common. It seemed to work too as she was now observing many more close calls than in the beginning. Poor Bifur had barely avoided a matching axe on the other side of his head and Fili was sporting a bloody gash on his shoulder. 'Please Gandalf' she silently begged 'hurry'.

Out of the corner of her eye she caught a movement that didn't belong. Looking she watched horror-struck as an orc creep to the edge of an alcove situated directly above Kílí. The creature must have climbed up from the other side of the boulder to break their defences.

Instinctively her hand went to her belt, but when she reached into the pouch her fingers met only bare leather. “Kílí, watch out,” she yelled a hysterical note in her voice. But even as she did she knew it was useless. Kílí was trapped on the ledge and there was no where he could go. He reacted to her call and looked first at her and then behind him where the orc was hovering above him like a vengeful spirit. Kílí whipped up his bow but the space between him and the rockface was too narrow at this angle. No arrow he shot from this position would hit its target. The creature seemed to realize this too because it grinned in pleasure and seemed to enjoy the helpless fear and rage on Kílí's face.

Bilbo frantically felt around on the ground, too afraid to find Kílí dead if she looked away from the morbid display for even a moment. Her hand wrapped around a sharp piece of rock. It was misshapen, oblong and sharp angled, nothing at all like the smooth, round stones she had practised with, but it was Kílí's only chance. She loaded her sling and grabbed it with her left hand, cringing at the unfamiliar feel of it in her non-dominant hand. With her right hand she grabbed the side of the ledge and held on for dear life as she leaned outwards over the abyss as far as her arm would allow. She felt sick with fear but this was the only way she would have enough free space to swing the sling and aim sideways where the orc was standing. With a desperate wish and a prayer she sent the rock on its way. It slowed down faster than the smooth rocks and she had misjudged how the irregular shape would influence the trajectory. Instead of hitting the Orc full in the face as she had planned, the rock merely glanced his cheek leaving behind a bloody scratch but no serious injuries.

The Orc screeched in rage and turned his attention to her. Time seemed to slow down as he lifted his arm and threw something at her. The projectile hit her square the chest and for a moment she couldn't even breath. It was sheer dumb luck that she managed to hold on to the rock-face and swing back into her alcove instead of tumbling down to her death. Her fear for Kílí made her ignore the pain as she scrambled back to the edge to look at where the Orc was still standing. She was just in time to see an arrow hit the creature dead centre in the chest and see the body plunge over the edge. Baffled she looked Kílí who appeared as surprised as she was. Then the clear, high notes of a horn could be heard echoing off the rock. At least twenty riders in golden armour sitting on tall horses were riding in their direction and Gandalf rode with them. There was something otherworldly and ethereal about these riders, they didn't move like men, for all that they were the same size, nor like hobbits or dwarves. Their movements had a fluidity to them that she had only ever noticed on Gandalf when he momentarily forgot that he had the appearance of a very old man. She knew they had to be elves. The orcs scattered and fled before them or else swiftly fell under their blades and arrows. Bilberry sagged in relief. Help had finally arrived.

Giddiness soon gave way to concern. Her chest throbbed in pain and she looked down half expecting to find a knife sticking out of her body, but there was nothing. Her shirt only had the smallest of rips and she wasn't even sure if that hadn't been there before. She touched the place of impact and it smarted and stung a bit, but nowhere near what she imagined a serious injury would feel like. She half sobbed half laughed in relief and sagged down to the ground to get her bearings. Now that the danger had passed she felt suddenly unbearably exhausted.

“Come now Miss Bilberry,” Kílí yelled with laughter in his voice. “No time to be a layabout. Surely you don't want to miss Uncle talking with the elves? It's sure to be entertaining!”

Bilbo groaned but conceded. She wasn't particularly keen on seeing Thorin in a clinch with elves but she could hardly take a rest up here. And she _was_ rather curious about their saviours. The climb down was far more difficult than the way up had been. She did her best not to look down but sometimes it was unavoidable when she had to look where to best place her feet. But finally she had solid ground under her feet again and her knees went weak with relief. She sagged against the rock trying to get her bearing, but strangely the dizziness didn't pass now that she was on the ground again. She blinked and looked up. Thorin was standing a mere twenty feet away intently talking with Gandalf and what appeared to be the elven leader who both had their backs turned to her.

It was all very strange. Thorin's words sounded sharp and clipped but even though she heard them clearly she couldn't understand a single one of them. Was he talking in the secret language of the dwarves like Bifur sometimes did? But why was he doing so with an elf?

There was darkness dancing at the edge of her vision hovering just out of reach. The earth and the sky were moving, turning the upside into downside and her body lost hold of the ground. Something very strange was happening. “Thorin,” she croaked and her own voice sounded foreign to her ears. Then she fell upside and for an eternity all she could see was the sky.

A face disrupted her view of endless blue and it took longer than it should until her eyes could put it into focus. She stared in wonderment. She had never seen an Elf this close before, but there was no doubt in her mind that he must be one. On his head sat a deceptively simple silver circlet and at its centre a pale stone gleamed like the moon. Eärendil the Mariner. It had to be. She had looked at the sky and felt like she was falling into it and here he was, just like Mama had described him with dark hair, proud but kind eyes, a face that was almost too harsh for an elf and the brightest of stars set on his brow. She lifted one heavy arm up to touch it, just to see what it felt like but before she could reach, the light vanished and everything fell dark. She thought that maybe she heard Thorin calling her name, but if so then he was very far away. Far down on the ground while she was high above on a ship carrying a star.

 

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1 A direct quote from The Hobbit reads as following: “ _For goblins eat horses and ponies and donkeys (and other much more dreadful things), and they are always hungry.”_

I went with the 'always hungry' theme and tried incorporating that into the Orc POV. Do tell me how that format is working for you. Ideally I wanted a line of violent food-thoughts running underneath every normal POV line but the formatting didn't work out. Also, I ran out of gory vocabulary.

 

2 A reference to Eärendil, of course. I have no idea when Bilbo exactly learned of Eärendil, but as in LotR he famously had the _cheek_ (Aragorn's word, I believe) to write a song about him in Elrond's house (Elrond being Eärendil's son) I wanted to include it.

 

3 This is all true according to Tolkien. And yes, Sméagol is a Stoor Hobbit.

 

4 I get caught up in the strangest things sometimes. Many thanks to the little-details community for giving me some insights into horse/pony behaviour, how they would react in a situation like this and what the best course of action for the company was to keep them from harm.


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